


At First Sight II: Another Country

by Dorothy Marley (dmarley)



Series: At First Sight [2]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: Backstory, Blow Job, Drama, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Canon, Romance, one-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-31
Updated: 2000-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmarley/pseuds/Dorothy%20Marley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Mike Logan's father was a beat cop his entire career, and Mike wonders if he's destined to follow in his footsteps. It's not long, though, before he encounters a sequence of cases that will change his life, and, perhaps more importantly, a man who makes him realize that he doesn't have to spend that life alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At First Sight II: Another Country

Barnardine: "Thou hast committed--"  
Barabas: "Fornication? But that was in another country, and besides the wench is dead."  
\--Christopher Marlowe, "The Jew of Malta"

\-----

The morning sun playing over his face slowly woke Ben Stone from a sound sleep. He resisted, realizing even in his sluggish doze that the longer he stayed asleep, the longer he could avoid the hot, sticky humidity of a New York August day. Already he could feel the film of sweat that covered his body, dampening the sheets wrapped around his bare legs. He kicked out irritably, freeing himself from the cloying prison of the soft fabric until he lay naked, but it was no use. Not a breath of air stirred over him in the stifling heat, and without the shielding sheets he was now totally exposed, reduced to being slowly baked in the sun.

A soft grumble from beside him made Ben turn his head, recalling only belatedly that on this particular morning, his stirrings were likely to have an effect on someone other than himself. It had been a long time since he'd been used to waking up in company, and his bed-sharing etiquette had, it seemed, suffered from severe disuse. He stroked a light apology down the sweat-slick back that was turned to him, gratified to hear nothing more coherent than a sleepy mumble from the head buried in the soft pillow. Ben regarded the other man with envy for a moment, gauging the deep, regular breathing that spoke of a return to a profound slumber, then reflected wryly that Mike was probably used to this morning oven. _Probably used to sharing it, too,_ he amended with a twinge of jealousy.

Careful of the man sleeping beside him, Ben rolled over and stretched, resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going back to sleep, that he was well and truly awake. Just as well, since he hadn't exactly planned on staying over. But it had been late when they'd gotten here, and even later by the time things worked around to an appropriate denouement under the sheets. After that, it had seemed like a good idea, just this once, for Ben to stay the night. Ben closed his eyes, savoring the memory, feeling the lazy stir in his groin as he recalled the sensation of Mike's mouth on his, his hands wrapping around Ben's hips, pulling him up against him until Ben had nearly screamed out loud. Then the usual sweet finish, oil-slick bellies pressed together, pumping into the tight, slippery envelope of their sealed bodies.

Beside him, Mike rolled over again, tossing out a careless arm to snare Ben in a light embrace, fingers trailing down, then brushing lightly over the inevitable results of Ben's reminiscence. "Mmm," he said sleepily, curving his hand around the hardening shaft. "Good morning." He stroked his palm slowly down Ben's length, then curled his fingers possessively around him. He shifted closer to snuggle next to Ben's shoulder, then buried his face in the pillow and closed his eyes again.

"That's not a toy," Ben felt obliged to remind him, but made no move to dislodge the warm, snug grip. He was rewarded with a brief squeeze, and then the soft brush of Mike's lips against his bare shoulder.

"Shh," Mike said softly into his skin. "I'm still dreaming. Don't make me wake up yet." He squeezed again, then pumped his hand slowly, once, twice, until Ben gulped audibly and arched his hips up, mindlessly seeking the promise of pleasure from the tight fist. He felt Mike's smile against his shoulder, and knew there was an answering grin on his own face.

"So which of us is having the dream?" he felt obliged to ask, and gasped again as Mike squeezed a little harder, freeing a lazy thumb to stroke over the soft, smooth ridge that circled the crown.

"Still me," Mike whispered in his ear, and sighed as Ben turned his head to catch his lips with his own. "Definitely me," he said when they parted.

There was nothing Ben would have liked more than to let him simply finish what he'd started, but something in that sleepy, lazy smile stirred a sudden impulse. He reached down, covering Mike's hand with his, and helped him stroke him again. But after a moment, he gently urged Mike's hand away.

"Hey." Mike started a protest, but Ben put his mouth over his to stop it.

"This is a dream," he reminded softly, breathing the words softly over Mike's lips. "A very good dream." He started moving down. "And it's about to get better," he added, bending his head to lick carefully at Mike's penis, drawing his tongue slowly up the rapidly hardening length, hearing Mike's squeak of surprise. Ben licked him again, and the squeak turned quickly into a full-throated moan.

"Oh, God," Mike breathed, keeping his eyes tightly shut. "God, this _has_ to be a dream." He parted his legs as Ben moved closer, spreading his thighs willingly as Ben continued his exploration. Ben took his time, savoring the soft, salty skin under his lips, tasting every inch of him with slow, patient strokes of his tongue, licking the hard shaft until he was satisfied that he'd covered every square millimeter. He paused a second, hearing Mike moan as he arched his hips up, all but begging for more, then moaning again in helpless desire as Ben merely planted a soft kiss at the tip of his penis, then slowly moved his kisses downward, until he pressed his lips to the cool skin of the balls underneath.

He paid the same careful attentions to Mike's balls as he had his penis, spreading Mike's thighs further with his hands while he covered the soft sacs in wet, rasping licks, hearing Mike's increasingly desperate whimpers above him as merely an encouraging ovation to his work. A last gentle swipe of his tongue around the soft folds, and then he paused again before nudging carefully down and delivering a long, slow lick up the smooth crease underneath. Mike nearly stopped breathing. He offered no resistance, only a weak, helpless groan as Ben put his hands carefully on his thighs again, pushing up and out until he could bend down and deliver one last lick to the taut cluster of nerves hidden between his legs.

"Oh, _God._" It was barely a hoarse whisper, and Ben felt the sheets shift beneath him as Mike bunched them in his fists, his thighs quivering under Ben's hands. Ben licked him again in the same spot, and again. Mike was panting now, his hands knotting in the sheets every time Ben touched him, his voice rasping a helpless litany of "Ohgodohgodohgod," probably not even aware that the words were spilling from his lips. Gratified, Ben rewarded him with more, moving his tongue harder, then faster, until finally Mike's voice broke in a strangled cry, his body shuddering under Ben's hands.

That was the cue Ben had been waiting for. He rose up, releasing him, and finally put his lips around the taut shaft quivering against Mike's belly, sliding down until he had taken the whole, delicious length in his mouth. He sucked once, twice, and felt Mike's hands settle on his head, threading trembling fingers through his hair, cradling Ben's head gently against him. "Ben," he whispered softly, a warning and a question, and he moaned again as Ben only sucked harder. He bucked up, once, and then cried out behind his clenched teeth as the release finally came, filling Ben's mouth with warm, salty heat. He came hard, his body spasming up into Ben's mouth with long, shuddering strokes, his hands falling to grip Ben's shoulders with almost painful intensity. Ben kept on, sucking until the last quivers had ceased, until Mike was still beneath him, his stomach heaving with his breath. Ben let the softening penis slip out of his mouth, ruefully reaching for the sheet to wipe his chin.

"Sorry," he said, seeing Mike's eyes regarding him drowsily from the head of the bed. The thick brows arched up in languid surprise, and then Mike's hands were reaching for him, pulling him down against him.

"Sorry?" he said. "Here's how sorry you should be." He kissed him, slowly devouring Ben's mouth with his, heedless of the wetness still clinging to Ben's lips and tongue. He licked Ben's mouth with lazy thoroughness, and Ben felt him smile as his own neglected arousal bumped against Mike's thigh, as if reminding them both. Mike let him go, smiling up at him, his eyes soft and dreamy. "Sorry?" he said again. "Come here."

Ben's brows lifted, but he obliged as Mike pushed him to sit up, straddling his body, then felt his mouth go dry as Mike pulled him forward, urging him up until Ben was sitting astride his shoulders, his erection bobbing in Mike's face. Mike looked up at him, grinning, and reached his hands up to caress Ben's buttocks from behind, encouraging him to lean up until Mike could lift his head and take him into his mouth.

It was all Ben could do to stay up on his knees as the warm, wet heat surrounded him, drawing him down until he could feel Mike's face pressed against his belly, his mouth working as he suckled slowly on his cock. Ben felt his knees spread involuntarily, his back arching as he leaned forward on his hands, anything to put himself deeper into the sucking heat of Mike's mouth. Mike put his hands on Ben's hips, and for a moment Ben worried that he was pushing too hard, that Mike wanted to push him back. But instead, Mike was urging him down, sucking harder until Ben thought he would be swallowed whole. Ben's back arched again, his whole body curving out, following the helpless, mindless desire to have his cock sucked down Mike's throat. Mike's hands clenched on his hips again, and now Ben was being urged back, but only so that he could be pulled forward again, sliding back and forth between the tight lips.

Again and again, Mike pushed him almost all the way away, only the tip of his cock remaining to be kissed and teased by Mike's lips, then he was plunged back down again, his whole length swallowed down into the sucking maw. Ben closed his eyes, helpless to do anything but what Mike's hands told him to do, pumping up and down astride him as his cock drove in and out of the hot seal of Mike's lips. Finally, there was nothing more he could do to hold back, and he came, gasping, plunging down one last time into the slick heat of Mike's mouth, feeling Mike's throat sucking the orgasm out of him, pulling hard until the last tremors faded.

It took an effort for Ben to move, only the protests of his trembling knees giving him the impetus to lift away from Mike's gentle licks. He collapsed beside him on the bed, closing his eyes as Mike rolled over to wrap his arms around him, the other man nearly purring with pleasure as he kissed him.

"Good morning to you, too," Ben said, keeping his eyes closed as Mike covered his face with soft kisses.

"Mmm," was all Mike said, still absorbed in planting kisses along the line of Ben's jaw. He only stopped when, suddenly, the alarm clock by the bed went off with a hideous explosion of noise. With a growl, Mike left off his pleasant exploration and flipped over to smack the thing off. He sat up, running his fingers through his tousled hair, then gave Ben a rueful smile. "Guess that means no more nooky this morning."

"Mmm." Ben let his eyes drift closed, and felt Mike's hand along his side, fingers brushing lightly against his skin before drawing back. He opened his eyes again, and found Mike regarding him with a strange expression, dark brows drawn close over his clear gray eyes. "What?" he had to ask, and saw Mike shake himself a little, as if he hadn't meant to be caught.

"Nothing." He bent down and kissed him. "Just enjoying the view."

It was on the tip of his tongue for Ben to say, "You've got to be kidding," but something in Mike's voice made him bite his tongue on the words. "I'm glad to know," sounded a lot better, and made Mike smile and bend to kiss him again.

"I'm serious," he said. "You have no idea how you look right now." A broad finger traced down his cheek, following the line of his stubble, then swept up to brush at the strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead. "All mussed up," Mike said with what sounded like deep satisfaction, as if Ben were his own personal creation. Which, in a way, Ben supposed he was. After all, who was responsible for him lying here, sleepy and sated and, as Mike put it, all mussed up. He smiled, and lifted his head to meet Mike for another kiss.

_When did this happen?_ he found himself wondering, and a second later was wondering just what "this" was. Although he hadn't meant it to be so at the time, his staying last night had crossed some undefinable line, moving them both into a place that, for the first time in the six weeks they'd been dating, was somewhere beyond dating, beyond sex. The sex was over, and they were still here, kissing and caressing, and finding things to enjoy about each other in the hot sticky morning sun.

Not for the first time, Ben regretted that they'd gone so far as to have sex on their first date, not even a real first date at that. It had set up the expectation, and every date afterwards was, he sometimes felt, just the necessary prelude to be gotten through before returning here and groping each other in the bed. Not, he had to admit, that that was so bad. But the more he saw of Mike Logan, the more he wanted to know about him, the more he wished he knew, and he was coming to realize that about all he did know was what he liked in bed. Even that was, given the events of the morning, something of a study in progress.

Eventually, Mike pulled away from him, sighing regretfully as he cast his eyes on the clock. "You want some breakfast?" he asked. "Coffee?" His hand crept out, caressing over Ben's thigh. "Shower?"

The shower only took about twice as long it should have, and afterwards Mike dug through his closet and produced a clean white shirt that was only a little too big for him. Ben dressed in front of the mirror, putting on his suit and tie from the night before, and trying to decide just how obvious it was that he hadn't been home. He looked at himself again, and sighed. It would just have to do.

\-----

Ben made it to the office more or less on time, at least well within a normal excuse for being tardy. Not that he actually had to answer to anyone, not even Adam Schiff, about the hours he worked, but he liked to be available, and he didn't like the people who worked for him to get the idea that he wouldn't be there to notice if something went wrong.

Today, it was the guilt written all over his assistant's face that alerted him that something was brewing, probably trouble. He returned her good morning, but instead of walking on to his own office, he paused in the door of her cubicle, regarding her thoughtfully over his glasses.

"Something the matter, Sarah?" he asked, and was rewarded with a bright blush. Ben suppressed an internal sigh. Sarah was a good researcher, with a good instinct for detail and organization, but after four months one thing had become patently clear: she would never make it in the courtroom. Every thought, every emotion was writ large on her sweet, honest face. Even a half-competent defense attorney would chew her up and spit her out within five minutes. It was a shame, but Ben hoped he could direct her into something more suited for her. Something that kept her out of the courtroom.

Sarah gulped. "Sir, David Lawson's attorney wants to meet with you."

"Lawson?" Ben cast his mind briefly through his cases, appalled that the name at first meant nothing, then nodded as the memory clicked. "Oh, yes. The man who ran over his wife with a furniture truck." He shrugged. "What's the problem? We pled the case out on the first try, he's in prison. Right?"

"His lawyer is moving to withdraw the plea."

The beginnings of a headache began to form behind Ben's eyes. "On what grounds?" he asked tiredly.

"That Lawson wasn't represented by counsel during his interrogation." Sarah gulped again. "Sir, I read over the police reports. I think there might be something there."

Ben closed his eyes. "Son of a bitch."

With that kind of start to the day, it was no surprise that the rest of it continued to go sour. Lawson's attorney, a fresh-faced public defender who was a hell of a lot sharper than his farmboy features implied, dumped enough evidence on Ben's lap of police impropriety that Ben was hard-pressed to even go through the motions of denying his justification. He was tempted, after a late, cold lunch, to go down to the Ninth precinct and start yanking badges, but a lengthy phone call to the Homicide squad's lieutenant proved to be sufficiently therapeutic. He hung up satisfied that a couple of detectives were about to have an even worse day than him.

The day had started out so well, too. After the call, Ben indulged himself in a brief swivel of his chair to face out the window, gazing at the sunny sky and trying to recapture a little piece of the happy contentment he'd felt walking into One Hogan Place that morning. It was something he'd looked forward to savoring all day, the memory of Mike's body against his, the smell of his skin, the taste of him. Ben closed his eyes. It was infatuation, he knew damn well it was. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.

Ben had begun to resign himself to the fact that this wasn't going to be permanent. Despite what had happened last night, he couldn't quite bring himself to hold up that hope. Not yet. Everything was still too new, too uncertain. They were still finding their way around each other, still existing from date to date, with no promises, no commitments. It was assumed, by Ben anyway, that their mutual free time--such as it was--would be spent together, but that was as far as it had gone. Yet. Ben was afraid to push for more.

Sometimes he wondered what Mike saw in him. He wasn't naive enough to suppose that Logan ignored the difference in their ages, or that he was blind to the fact that there were a great many men and women walking the streets of New York City that would beat Ben Stone in a beauty contest any day of the week. He'd begun to worry, lately, that maybe it was simply because he was a sure thing. It was embarrassing to admit, but Ben knew it was true, and maybe Mike had drawn the same conclusions. He'd certainly never displayed much interest in Ben's life, or shared much of his own. When they talked, it was almost always about work, about Mike's cases, or Ben's. That, or baseball, or something else equally innocuous.

But none of that explained the way Mike acted when the small talk ended and they got in bed. If he was using Ben just to get laid, then he certainly didn't act like it once he'd gotten what he wanted. As for this morning, well, that was another piece of the puzzle. That look, that sweet, tender brush of fingers through his hair, the way Mike had said, "Just enjoying the view." If he was that good an actor, then he'd chosen the wrong profession.

\-----

"So, who is she?"

Logan started up from the passenger seat of the patrol car, pulling himself back from his pleasant daydream as his partner spoke. "Who?" he asked unintelligently, wondering what the hell Ricky was talking about.

"Her," Ricky said meaningfully. "The one that put that tomcat smile on your face this morning."

"Oh. Yeah." Mike shrugged. "No one special," he temporized.

"Yeah. Right," Ricky said with rich sarcasm, and started the engine. "Come on, Mikey," he wheedled. "Give."

Mike knew that Ricky really didn't care. He'd have listened to a recap of last night's baseball game with about equal enthusiasm. It was just talk, chit-chat, a way to pass the time cooped up this patrol car without getting personal. It was an art most partners perfected pretty quickly. Or they didn't stay partners long.

Sure, he knew a lot about Ricky. He knew that his parents had moved to some little hick town upstate--Eastwood or something--when he was five, that he'd moved back to Brooklyn to go through the Academy and join the force, and that he was always threatening to pack his bags and move back upstate. He was a good Italian boy, a lapsed Roman Catholic, and he had twice as many brothers as Mike did that only drove him half as crazy. All nice, superficial stuff, the kind of thing Mike could learn just by reading his personnel file. They kept it that way.

"There's nothing to give," he stalled again, and shrugged. "Just someone I've seen a few times."

"But last night you scored, right? First time?"

Yeah. It was a first time. Mike swallowed, very glad, suddenly, that he was holding the log sheet in his lap as he flashed on the memory of Ben kneeling between his legs, of his hands on Mike's thighs, just about to go down on him. "Something like that," he said, and had to work, suddenly, to suppress the grin that he felt stealing over his features. He squashed it, not wanting to have to answer any more questions, and reached over to poke Ricky's shoulder. "So, what about you? You take Arlene out last night?"

Ricky made a face. "Nah. She had some thing with her family. Stayed home and watched the Mets get pasted."

"Good," Mike said with a grin, and got a warning look from his partner.

"Don't get me started. Today, I might start agreeing with you." As Mike had hoped, Ricky was just as eager to talk about the game as he'd been to discuss Mike's love life, and a detailed description of the Mets' humiliating defeat at the hands of the last-place team in the league was enough of a conversational gambit to last the rest of the shift. Just as well.

\-----

Ben thought the rest of the day would never end. After the unexpected blindside from a case he'd thought long closed, it was hard to concentrate on the rest of the small mountain of paperwork waiting to be done. At least that's what he told himself, trying to pretend that his lapses of attention were the result of that upset, and not, by any means, caused by daydreams about the feel of silky black hair under his hands, the smell of smooth pale skin, the expression in a pair of clear gray eyes.

This was ridiculous. Ben tossed his pen aside for the hundredth time that day, plucking his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose. _You've got to pull yourself together,_ he told himself sternly. _This is your work, for crying out loud, and you aren't doing it. Focus._ But it was no use.

It was that morning that had done it, he decided grimly. Staying the night, waking up next to him, making love before work . . . that's what lovers did. Ben wasn't sure how that word felt. They'd never spoken of it, never verbalized anything that could even be remotely construed as a commitment. Yet here they were.

There was no sense in pretending that what they'd done this morning wasn't something of a turning point. Every other time, their sex had been, well, less intimate, if one could use such a term to describe the most intimate of acts. But it was true. Rubbing their bodies together, even masturbating each other, it wasn't, quite frankly, much more than what they could have done alone. Ben had felt that Mike was shying away from anything more, felt that he was somehow reluctant to take even that small step forward. But not this time. When he'd taken Mike in his mouth, that was different. That had been personal, and intimate, an offering that only another person could make. But it still wasn't enough.

Ben turned the thought over in his mind again. He wanted him. The thought of it sent a jolt of desire through his body, and he felt himself flush. Infatuation, hell. Puppy-love, even puppy-lust, was one thing, but this was something altogether different. This was desire, the likes of which he wasn't sure he could admit to having felt before. Passion was one thing, but to have this burning need for one person, to be able to think of almost nothing else, that was new. None of which changed the fact that Mike was working a double shift tonight. Damn.

_And what if he wasn't?_ Ben asked himself, wincing from the self-mockery even in his mental tones. _What is it, Mr. Stone, that you want, exactly? The man just gave you some of the most incredible sex of your life this morning, and now, suddenly, it's not enough. What more could you ask for?_

A lot.

\-----

It was late when Mike got home from his shift, or early if he wanted to be picky about it. Half past midnight before he dragged himself up the stairs and let himself into the stifling heat of his apartment. He considered briefly turning on his air conditioner, an ancient window unit that made more noise than a Concord take-off, and which, when turned on and allowed to rattle and gasp for a good half hour, produced an occasional asthmatic wheeze of slightly cool air. He opened the windows instead.

The light on his answering machine was blinking, so he pressed the button on the way past, listening to the accumulated calls as he fixed a belated supper. Two calls from Katy, reminding him of dinner on Sunday, as if he'd forget in the next four days, and asking if he could pick up Dad after Mass. A call from his father, reiterating what Katy had said, and adding the usual pointed invitation for Mike to go to Mass with him. _Sorry, Dad._ A hang up, two hang ups, and then another voice, one that he'd been waiting all day to hear.

"Hi, this is Ben. I know you won't get this until late, but I wanted to see how you felt about having dinner tomorrow. I was planning to eat at Santini's around seven, so if you want to join me, just be there." There was a pause, and then Ben added, very softly, in the voice that always did funny things to Mike's knees, "I hope I'll see you there."

Mike closed his eyes. Oh, God. If Ben had any idea what that did to him. If he only knew what the sound of his voice could do. His voice, his words, his tone, all those things that made Ben such a good prosecutor. He should have known he'd have it outside the courtroom, too, that he could sway and manipulate and convince Mike the same way he could persuade a jury. Mike was equally helpless to resist.

He barely registered the last two calls, both from women he'd been seeing casually, both asking variations on where he was and why the hell hadn't he called. _Sorry, ladies,_ he thought, and then smiled ruefully. _See what you've done, Stone? Two perfectly good dates, beautiful, nice, willing, and the only thing I want to do with the message is pull that tape out of the machine and save it for the sound of your voice. Damn you._

\-----

Ben looked at his watch. 7 o' clock. He went to the bar, ordered a whiskey and soda, carried it back to the lounge. 7:05. He drank most of the drink, and checked his watch again. 7:10.

_Well, what did you expect?_ No word from Mike, no answer. Okay, so he hadn't made it sound as if it were important, had in fact taken pains to make it clear that Mike could show up or not as he chose. _Should you be so shocked that he chose not?_

Ben finished his drink, and gave a little sigh as he rose to ask for his table. Might as well not waste the reservation. He was just turning for the desk when he very nearly bumped into someone coming from the anteroom, and murmured an apology before it registered in his mind that this someone had a disturbingly familiar shape. Familiar shape, familiar smell, and, when he looked up, a blessedly familiar smile.

"Sorry I'm late," Mike said, a little breathless. "I got hung up." He was wearing a jacket and tie, both clearly donned in haste, and the latter apparently knotted without benefit of a mirror. Ben thought he'd never looked more gorgeous.

"Thanks for coming." He made himself say, and gestured. "Shall we?"

_This is ridiculous,_ he told himself as he followed Mike and the host to the back booth he'd reserved. _Look at you. Sweaty palms, dry mouth, stomach like a pack of butterflies. It's like you're sixteen again, and you're taking your sweetheart to dinner before the prom. What are you afraid of?_

That was an easy one. Despite everything, despite the fact that they'd shared so much already, Ben was still afraid of being refused this last thing. Maybe the best thing would be for him to not even ask, to let the offer die right here, unspoken. In any case, it wasn't the kind of subject he was going to bring up over dinner.

Whether it was that resolve, or just the residual nervousness on his part, Ben found himself drinking more than was his wont, and as the evening went on, talking more. Inevitably, they got on the subject of baseball again. After the usual disparagements over the "Mets vs. Yankees" debate, Ben found himself talking, of all things, about Elizabeth, and the games he shared with her.

He knew that Mike knew, intellectually, that he had a daughter, but it seemed to surprise him a little when Ben started talking about her, started telling him about the start of their mutual infatuation with the game, and the now-traditional Sundays spent at Shea, cheering them on.

"I'm probably the only parent in the state of New York that has the Mets' schedule stipulated as a basis for visitation," he told Mike with a smile, and got a grin in return. "But Elizabeth insisted," he went on. "It was important to her."

"She lives with her mother, right?" Mike asked, and Ben nodded.

"We thought it was best. We didn't want her torn between two homes. I can see her anytime I want, and she can come and stay with me whenever she wants." Ben felt his mouth turn up in a wry smile. "I got that much."

"Sounds like you two are close."

"She's my daughter," Ben said simply. He glanced over the top of his glass at Mike. "Have you ever been married?"

The question seemed to startle him. "No," Mike said after a moment. "No, I never have. I was engaged, once, but . . ." he shrugged. "Didn't work out."

"Oh. I'm sorry." _Good move, Stone. Rule number one. Never ask a question unless you already know the answer._ To his relief, though, Mike seemed unwilling to dwell on it.

"It was a long time ago," he said, waving it away with his fork before poking around the remains of his dinner. "I was way too young, anyway, so it's just as well." He found an undiscovered scallop in the scraps of his pasta, and nibbled it down delicately, probably aware of Ben's eyes on him. "So, how old is Elizabeth?"

"Twelve," Ben supplied, happily accepting the change of subject. Mike glanced up in surprise.

"Twelve?"

Ben nodded. "Two months ago. Why? What's wrong?"

Mike opened his mouth, closed it, and then turned his attention back to the contents of his plate, absorbing himself in sifting, it seemed, every strand of linguini. "I--" he started, and then cleared his throat and looked up again, a sheepish expression on his face. "I wouldn't have guessed that you had a daughter that old," he finally got out.

"I was twenty-four when Elizabeth was born," Ben informed him with amusement. "Maybe a little young, but I'll take that as a compliment nonetheless."

Mike flushed, but he was still smiling. "Good. Then I won't have to come up with some clever way to apologize." He looked up from under his brows, his smile still lingering around his mouth, but there was suddenly something very different in the expression, something that made Ben feel unaccountably as though the temperature in the room had shot up several degrees. "After all," Mike went on, his voice low now, and filled with the kind of promise Ben had all but prayed for the last twenty-four hours. "I'd hate to be responsible for cutting the evening short."

It was suddenly difficult to swallow. Ben took a hasty gulp of water, and tried his voice. "That would be shame," he managed to agree. He cleared his throat, and nodded at Mike's plate, trying to think of something cool and self-possessed to say. "You done with that?" was about the best he could manage.

Mike put his napkin on the table, and put his hands on his chair to push it back. "Yeah. Let's go."

They were perfect gentleman all the way out, and walking down the street to the garage where Ben had parked. Ben led Mike up to the space where he'd left the car, but as he reached for his keys to unlock the door he became aware that Mike hadn't gone around to the passenger side. Instead, he was standing behind him, looking around at the nearly deserted parking level. Ben turned back, curious, following his gaze. "What--?" he began, but got no farther before Mike's hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back, and Mike's mouth was on his. The kiss only lasted a second, just long enough for tongue and lips and hands to ravish him thoroughly, touching him, groping him, and then it was over.

Mike stepped back, breathing a little hard, reaching up to push his tousled hair back into place. He swallowed once, and licked his lips, smiling. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

\-----

After the scene in the parking garage, Ben was hardly surprised when, as soon the door to Mike's apartment shut behind them, he was grabbed by the shoulders again and pushed against the wall, the better for Mike to hold him there while he slowly devoured him with feverish, almost desperate kisses. Ben found himself soon stripped of his jacket, and tie, and busy hands made short work of his shirt buttons, allowing those same hands to slide in over bare skin, caressing possessively as Mike continued his kisses. Ben gave up all pretense of trying to help return the favor and simply surrendered, letting his body flow into Mike's arms, to be held and touched and kissed until he felt as though he were drowning in the heat of his own skin. He was only dimly aware of Mike pausing at intervals to tear impatiently at his own clothes, and then of being walked over to the bed, still wrapped in Mike's arms, his shirt and trousers trailing in their wake so that when they at last fell on the bed, they were both naked, wrapped around each other in a slow, searing kiss that Ben thought was going to melt both their bodies into one.

Despite the fierceness of the kisses at the door, once they got in the bed Mike changed his tune, turning unaccountably tender, touching his lips gently to Ben's face, then his neck, planting soft, sweet kisses over his shoulders and tracing the lines of his collarbone. His lips lingered, feather-light, over one nipple, then moved to plant a single soft, wet kiss on the other. Slowly, as the rush of passion from those first kisses faded, Ben began to return to his senses, began to think again, began to appreciate everything that that soft, sweet mouth was doing to him. He arched up blissfully into the touch, hearing Mike's chuckle, feeling it as a warm puff of air against his belly. Mike slid up again to kiss him on the mouth, and this time Ben returned it enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Mike's shoulders to roll them both onto their sides for more kisses, more caresses. They were both breathing hard now, their bodies growing slick with sweat, and Ben couldn't bear to wait any longer. He'd hoped to do this beforehand, before things got out of hand, but there was a lot to be said, he thought as he explored Mike Logan's perfect lips, for seizing the moment.

"Mike," he breathed into those lips, touching the soft fullness of the lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "Mike, can we talk for a second?"

Mike pulled back, his face flushed with desire, his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes as he searched Ben's face. "What?" he panted. "Now?!" Ben only nodded, and Mike took a deep breath, raising his brows in acquiescence. "Okay," he said, his voice almost, but not quite, steady. "Sure. What about?"

"About this." Ben let his hand drift downwards, caressing his palm lovingly over the soft swell of Mike's ass. He found Mike's hand, where it was still idly stroking his thigh, and pulled it around to settle it firmly on the round cheek of his own buttock. "I want you," he said quietly, looking up into Mike's eyes. "Inside me. If you want to."

"Oh, Jesus." Mike closed his eyes, his face suddenly shining with sweat, the pulse beating in the side of his throat. "Oh, God." He opened his eyes again, and his hand stroked gently down, away from where Ben had placed it. "Ben," he said hoarsely. "Ben, I'll tell you the truth."

Ben's heart dropped like a stone. This was it, then. Mike patted him softly, like a man with an injured pet, and Ben wondered if he was going to be sick. "Ben," Mike said again, and leaned in to kiss him, whispering into his mouth. "Ben, I--God, this is embarrassing . . ." He swallowed, and Ben felt his mouth shape into a small, sheepish smile before he finally admitted, in a breathless rush, "If I did that, I wouldn't last a second." He smiled against Ben's lips. "But I'd be happy to turn that around. If you want to."

"Oh, God." Ben lay there, stunned with the sudden rush of desire, barely feeling the soft pressure of Mike's lips as he kissed him again. "Whatever you want," he heard himself say, and felt Mike's breath catch in a sharp gasp.

"I want you," Mike said breathlessly, slowly covering Ben's face with kisses. "I've always wanted you." He kissed the corner of Ben's mouth. "Wanted me in you." He kissed his cheek. "Wanted you in me." More kisses on his eyes, his nose, his forehead, until finally Mike broke away, reaching aside to nudge open the drawer of his nightstand. He pressed a tube into Ben's hand, and added a square package a second later. Then he rolled over on his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms.

There was nothing more Ben would have liked than to take his sweet time, exploring the broad, muscular back that was presented him, lingering over the smooth pale skin, stroking down the sweat-slick dimples along his spine. But one touch from his hand, just the lightest brush of his fingers along that perfect skin, and Mike shuddered against the covers, his breath catching as he fought for control. He shivered again as Ben's hands stroked his ass, spreading his legs helplessly as Ben knelt between them, telling him in every way but words to please, for the love of God, hurry.

Ben had no intention of hurrying, not if it meant hurting Mike in even the smallest way. But when he finally placed a well-oiled finger against the tight knot of muscle, rubbing gently to accustom Mike to the feeling, Mike let out a deep-throated moan and arched up against him, pressing himself against the questing finger and letting it glide into him without hesitation. Ben might have made a crack about him having done this before, but the sight of the slow, sensual arch of Mike's body into his touch had rendered him incapable of making any sound as coherent as speech. By the time Mike was ready for him, Ben's hands were shaking so hard that it took two tries to tear the condom from the package.

He lay down beside Mike, pulling at his shoulder until he lay on his side, one leg drawn up so that he was parted for him, ready and waiting. Mike's eyes were squeezed tightly shut now, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and Ben felt a sudden surge of his carefully contained desire. Mike felt this for him. All this passion, this desire, centered on what Ben was about to do, on what they were both about to do with their two bodies. The thought was so overwhelming that he had to stop, closing his eyes and breathing deep until he felt he could go on. He shifted closer, reaching out to stroke Mike's back, and asked in a whisper, "Are you ready?" The sleek head in front of him nodded once, and a hand groped back to curve over Ben's hip, pulling him forward.

As Ben entered him, Mike's spine arched, his entire body moving in a long, drawling undulation, a completely abandoned, unselfconscious motion that was meant for no other purpose than to draw Ben deeper inside him. When they were fitted together, Ben snuggled up tight to his back, his hands moving slowly, mindlessly, over the smooth expanse of Mike's chest. Mike was panting harshly now, his hand gripping Ben's thigh almost to the point of pain. Ben let a hand drift down, brushing the lightest feather-touch over Mike's erection, and felt him jump, his body clenching around Ben's own shaft in a way that made him gasp for breath. Ben leaned forward, putting his lips to Mike's ear, and spoke his name.

"Mike . . ." Mike came. Ben, wrapped around him, inside him, felt the orgasm pulse through him as though it was his own, his hips pushing helplessly into Mike's body until, after a few heartstopping strokes, he came himself, panting his release into the soft, thick mass of Mike's hair.

Neither of them moved for a long time. Ben reached up and began to stroke Mike's hair, running his fingers through the thick strands, marveling at the silky weight. Mike kept his eyes closed, but his hand stole out, finding Ben's free one and twining his fingers around him. Ben would have liked to stay there forever, but after a while he let go of Mike's hand and slowly, reluctantly, pulled himself away, sliding out of Mike's body with more than a little pang of regret. Mike made a small noise of protest as he slipped free, quieting only when Ben leaned down to kiss his cheek before sliding out of bed and padding to the bathroom.

When he returned a few moments later, Mike rolled lazily onto his back, opening his eyes sleepily to give Ben a soft, happy smile. Ben stopped dead in his tracks. Mike cocked his head, still smiling. "What?"

_You look happy,_ Ben almost said, and quashed the words as soon as he realized how they sounded. But it was true. It wasn't that Mike never smiled, or laughed, but until this moment, until Ben walked in and saw the relaxed, easy grin on his face, Ben had never really seen him look happy. And he resolved, from now on, to make him look like that as much as possible. Whatever it took.

\-----

What the hell was Ben looking at him like that for? Now he was smiling, as if he'd just made a private joke with himself, one that no one else would ever know. "What are you smiling for?" Mike asked him, and only got more of a smile in return.

"Nothing." Ben came forward, letting himself be drawn down into the damp coolness of the sheets, against the sweaty heat of Mike's own skin. He snuggled up against him, letting Mike fold his body around him, heedless of the heat of the room. Ben turned his head to kiss a handy shoulder, his lips warm against Mike's skin, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "Just enjoying the view."

Ah, a sense of humor. Mike chuckled, and wrapped his arms around Ben's body, letting his lips drift down to press against the side of Ben's head. So nice, Ben's slim weight against him, hips tucked against his, their legs twining with each other in the damp, clinging sheets. Very nice, indeed. Ben was draped languorously alongside him, relaxed and self-satisfied as a cat. Mike knew just how he felt. He closed his eyes, savoring the looseness of his own muscles, the relaxed weight of his soft penis on his thigh, even the gentle, insistent throb between his legs. It had been a long time. Too long, apparently, he reflected ruefully. He hadn't come that fast, or that hard, since . . . well, never. "I'm really sorry," he finally said, whispering the words against Ben's fine, soft hair. "I didn't mean to . . ." He cleared his throat, trying again. What could he say? It wasn't an apology he was used to making. "Well, I've usually got a little more staying power, if you know what I mean."

Ben barely moved, just patted his arm absently, stroking over the fine, dark hairs. "It's all right," he said drowsily, and the corner of his mouth turned up. "I didn't set any records myself, you remember." He smiled again, and lifted Mike's hand to his mouth, kissing gently at his fingertips. "Next time, we'll know better."

"Oh, yeah," Mike promised, feeling his body thrill lightly at the thought of that "next time." He tightened his free arm around Ben's chest, moving slowly up and down his side, then shifted closer, putting his lips against Ben's ear. "By the way . . ." He kissed his ear softly. "Thank you."

"For what?" Ben asked drowsily.

Mike would have answered, but he was momentarily distracted by the task before him, gently exploring Ben's ear, kissing, nibbling, until he finally remembered that there was a question pending. "For making love to me," he said at last, breathing the words into the depths of Ben's ear. "I've wanted . . ." He stopped, and then went on. "Well, let's just say it's been a while."

Ben squeezed his hand. "For me, too," he confessed quietly.

It was on the tip of Mike's tongue to ask, to find out how many months, or years, it had been, but he kept quiet. None of his business really. Not here and now, when everything was soft and relaxed and comforting, his arms around Ben's body, hands rubbing idly over his chest, wandering down to curve over the flat planes of his belly. Now it was time to cuddle and pet and enjoy the warmth of the body against his, not start asking for life histories. He leaned down to kiss Ben again.

When they parted, Ben settled back in his arms, idly stroking over Mike's hands, still clasped over his chest. "You know," he said. "It's occurred to me that I've never had you over for dinner at my place. I'm busy tomorrow, but I'm free Saturday. I can slave over the stove all day."

_Oops._ In the heat of the moment, Mike had forgotten all about his earlier errand, the one that had made him late for dinner and was, it seemed, about to put a severe crimp in his love life. Damn. "Ben," he began, "there's something I forgot to tell you."

One brow went up. "Yes?"

"Tonight, when I was late, I was late because I was over at John Jay, registering for a class." Mike paused. "I was thinking about that whole detective thing, and so I thought, 'What the hell?' Take a couple of classes, bone up on some stuff."

Ben's smile spread slowly over his face. "Great." He planted a quick kiss on Mike's mouth. "I'm glad you're thinking about it."

"Yeah, well, I'm still waiting on that damn transfer. I asked my sergeant about it, asked if there was anything holding me back, if there was anything I could do. He said it couldn't hurt, that it'd show I was willing and all that." Mike shrugged. "I don't know."

"I think it's good advice," Ben insisted. "I'm happy for you."

But Mike didn't smile back. "Yeah. But there's a catch. The course I signed up for, I signed up for because it's a once a week thing. Saturday. All day. Orientation's this Saturday, first class next week."

"Oh." Ben's face fell. "Oh, I see."

"Ben, I'm sorry. I meant to tell you."

He waved it away impatiently. "Don't be sorry," he said. "This is something you need to do, Mike." He kissed him, more gently this time. "You'll be a great detective. I know you will."

"Yeah, well I'd rather be a great detective with a free Saturday," Mike grumbled, but Ben only laughed. "How about Sunday?"

Ben shook his head regretfully. "Mets are in town. I'm booked. What about during the week?"

"Ricky and I are still on nights this week," Mike said with regret. "Thursday's my first night off. I'll be on until seven, but after that I'm free."

Yeah, a whole week away. Not that they hadn't had longer dry spells than this before, but not now, not when they'd just made love, really made love, for the first time. Mike thought sex was supposed to satisfy. He should have known that having sex with Ben would only make him hungry for more. It was small consolation that Ben looked just as disappointed as he felt.

"Okay," Ben agreed. "Thursday, then. I'll make my grandmother's famous Irish stew."

That made Mike smile. "Ooh, he cooks," he teased. "What else can you do?"

Ben grinned up at him, a new wicked gleam shining in his eye. "Come here and find out."

\-----

Thursday came quicker than Ben thought. At the time, it had seemed an unthinkable amount of time to spend apart, but there was something to be said for knowing the exact degree of torture to be endured. Every day brought him one step closer, and he woke up on Thursday morning with what he supposed was an incredibly silly grin on his face.

It helped that his week had been full and busy. He'd ended up spending Saturday having dinner and drinks with a pair of old friends, and Sunday had been entirely devoted to Elizabeth. She was glum because school was starting next week, and, according to her, her mother hadn't fallen for the ruse of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome as a reason to postpone the day. Ben wasn't sure whether to be appalled or flattered at her casual confidences as she blithely outlined her failed campaign. He settled for a mild fatherly remark about deceiving her mother, then, conscience appeased, gave her tips on where the plan might have gone awry. All in all, it had been a thoroughly enjoyable day, even lacking the prospect of seeing Mike at the end of it.

The remainder of the week had been filled with work, and with a new case going to trial the following week, Ben was just as glad to have the extra time in the evening to spend preparing the case. All the same, it seemed as though Thursday would never come.

\-----

Mike was supposed to get off shift at six, so he and Ben had arranged to meet at seven at Ben's condominium. Ben had given him the address and careful directions to his unit, and also the password for getting by the security guard at the gate. Mike had said that he'd be there, his voice filled with promises Ben fully intended to see that he kept. But now it was half past seven, and there was no sign of Mike.

Ben put the stew on simmer, not so worried about it as he was about Mike. Late to dinner after a day off was one thing. Late to dinner after a day of driving around the streets of New York looking for trouble and trying to diffuse it, that was something else. He was beginning to realize, belatedly, that if something did happen, there was no way in the world for him to know. No one to call, no one to ask, nothing to do but sit and wait. He didn't like it one bit.

At 7:45, the phone rang. Ben took a deep breath, and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's me." Ben closed his eyes in relief, then opened them again in worry as he registered the tone of the voice on the other end. Mike sounded terrible, tired and worn and upset, and Ben felt a pang of concern.

"Hi, I was starting to wonder," he said, keeping his voice mild with an effort. "What's the matter?"

There was a long pause. "Ben . . . Look, I've had a pretty bad day. I just got off shift, and I'm beat. I don't think I should . . . well, let's just say I won't be very good company, and I think maybe I ought to go straight home. I'm sorry."

"Mike--" Ben swallowed, bringing his voice under control again. He was at a loss. Part of him wanted to agree, to respect Mike's privacy and let him go. After all, it wasn't as though he had any real right to demand that Mike pour out his secrets, that he come and unburden himself at Ben's feet. But then there was the other part, the part that said, _To hell with that, he's hurting and he's upset, and if you think you can even imagine for a second that you can walk away from that, you're crazy._ "Mike," he began again, "please. I don't care what kind of company you are. I've got dinner ready, the least you can do is come and eat it."

"Ben, I'm sorry. I know this is a shitty thing to do to you, you have a right to be upset. But you deserve better from me than to have me lug my day through your door."

"And maybe you deserve better than someone who wouldn't let you do just that," Ben retorted gently, then softened his voice. "Mike, I can tell you're upset. I think maybe you'd like to come here, eat some good food, and maybe even tell me about it."

Another long moment passed in silence, until Ben began to wonder if Mike was still there. Then he sighed, and said, "I really appreciate the gesture. Really, I do. But it isn't your responsibility."

"Says who?" Ben countered softly. "Mike, I want you to come here, and eat dinner. I mean it."

There was a long, resigned sigh. "Okay," Mike said tiredly. "Okay, I'll come. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'll see you in a little while. Good-bye." Ben hung up.

\-----

When Ben answered the door, Mike gave him a tired smile, and spread his hands. "I can't believe I'm here," he said by way of greeting, and then let himself be pulled in and, looking surprised, gathered into Ben's arms. He resisted for a moment, his body stiff and unresponsive, then he melted a little into the embrace, putting his arms around Ben in return. Ben held him for a long time, stroking the dark head that rested against his shoulder, until finally he heard him give a long sigh, his arms tightening around Ben's waist.

"Thanks," Mike said quietly, stepping back as Ben let him go. He sounded surprised, dark brows pulling together a little as though he were puzzling over some new revelation. Then he smiled, and cast his eyes around the darkly paneled hall. "Nice place."

Ben smiled back, and took his arm. "I'll give you the grand tour later. Right now, I've got some stew boiling dry that needs to be taken care of."

They said very little over dinner, and it was Ben who did most of the talking. When Mike expressed appreciation over the thick stew, Ben told him about his grandmother's recipe, how it had been handed down for generations, how she'd learned it in Ireland from her own mother, and passed it on to her daughter, Ben's father's sister.

"My aunt died a spinster, in Savannah," Ben told Mike. "But before she died she wrote down all her mother's recipes, all her secrets for making bread and knitting stockings and quilting an Irish Chain."

"And she gave them to you?"

"Well, I suspect she guessed that my mother wouldn't be that interested," Ben said dryly. "Anyway, she left the whole legacy to me. She told me, just before she died, that I should marry a good Irish girl that I could give them to."

That got a grin, the first real one Ben had seen from Mike all night. "How about a good-looking Irish man?"

But that was the last smile for a while. Mike cleaned up everything Ben put in front of him with polite thoroughness, complimenting him on the stew, the bread, and the pudding that followed, but the tired lines around his eyes never went away.

After dinner, Ben took him around the house, showing him the living room, study, dining room downstairs, then upstairs to the guest room, the room that was Elizabeth's when she was here, and finally, the master bedroom.

"Wow." Mike stepped in, looking around in interest. He'd started the tour with polite willingness, nodding and listening as Ben took him around, but by the time he got upstairs he was a little more enthusiastic. He walked into the center of the carpet and turned in a circle, taking in the heavy antique furniture, the thick rugs, and the king-size bed that dominated the space along one wall. "Not too shabby," he said. He walked over and tested the mattress with his hand, then grinned over his shoulder at Ben and tossed himself onto the bed, flinging his arms out as he landed on his back. "Not bad," he said to the ceiling, then lifted his head to look at Ben. "You could lose a couple of boyfriends in this bed."

Ben only smiled, and walked over to stand next to him. "Are you auditioning?" Mike answered by reaching out a hand to pull him down. "I haven't finished the tour yet," Ben pointed out as he was inexorably dragged forward, to be wrapped in Mike's arms and then kissed to silence his protests. "We haven't seen the bathroom yet," he murmured into Mike's mouth.

"Fine." Mike kissed him again. "Why don't we work up a sweat," he suggested, moving his hands down to wrap around Ben's hips. "And then, we can get clean. Sound good to you?"

Ben didn't have to think twice. "Sounds good to me."

\-----

It was late. It had been late when they finished eating, and now Ben guessed that it must be after midnight. He could check the clock simply by lifting his head and turning it a few degrees, but that would mean removing his cheek from Mike's bare shoulder, and it wasn't worth it.

They were tangled up together in the middle of the bed, Ben sprawled loosely over Mike's supine body, arms and legs wrapped around each other. Mike was still caressing him softly, his broad palm roaming idly over Ben's flank, finally coming to rest on the curve of his buttock. He turned his head to kiss Ben's temple, his other hand trailing down his arm, and squeezed him gently as he sighed.

The last thing Ben wanted to do was move, or do anything to break the warm bubble of contentment that surrounded them. But the face next to his had grown pensive again, the corners of that mobile mouth dragging down once more. The sex had erased the pain for a while, but now it was back, written in every line that scored Mike's face. Hating himself for even thinking about moving, Ben leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

Mike closed his eyes. "About what?" he murmured tiredly, trying to pretend he didn't know.

"About whatever it was that you saw today." Ben kissed his cheek, letting his lips trail idly across the rough stubble. Mike didn't move.

"Not really," he said at last, and blew out a long sigh. "Look, can we just skip it? I'm fine."

By all rights, Ben should have. He'd asked, Mike had said no, and that was the end of it. Or should have been. But there was something in Mike's face, something in his voice, and his eyes, that made Ben reluctant to drop it. "You didn't look fine earlier," he said softly. "You didn't sound fine over the phone." He reached up, putting a hand on Mike's cheek, turning him to face him. "Tell me. I'd like to know."

But Mike shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Try me."

Mike regarded him for a long moment, searching Ben's eyes with his own, the beginnings of a smile playing over his lips. "You're not going to drop this, are you?" he asked, a touch of wonder shading his tone. "You'll just keep poking at it until I confess, right?"

"Something like that," Ben admitted. "Besides," he added, "I can always get the reports on my own. I'll find out, one way or another."

That got a smile. "Yeah. I think you would." Then the smile faded, and Mike turned on his back again, staring up at the draped canopy over their heads. "It's nothing new," he said. "I mean, five murders a day in the city, right? I've seen my share. Men, women, kids . . ."

Ben stroked a hand down his chest. "Tell me."

Mike took a deep breath. "I guess I was thinking about you. About . . . She was just a kid, Ben. Thirteen. Blond hair, blue eyes. Beautiful little girl."

Ben felt his stomach knot. "Like Elizabeth," he said.

Mike nodded. "Yeah." He wiped his hand down his face. "Geez, I mean, I've never even met her. But I saw that girl . . ." He swallowed. "She was beaten to death. In her own bedroom. Beaten and left to die."

"Mike . . ." Ben didn't know what else to say. He reached out and found Mike's hand, lying over his stomach, and twined his fingers in his. "Do you know who did it?"

That, apparently, was a sore subject. Mike's face twisted, and his hand clenched in Ben's. "Beaumont and Fletcher think they do," he said, his words sharp with anger. "They've arrested the parents."

"And you don't agree?"

It was a long time before Mike answered. "I don't know," he said at last. "I mean, yeah, they're suspects I guess, but . . ." He sighed. "Ricky and I were the first ones on the scene. I saw the parents, Ben. The mother was holding the little girl, crying, trying to . . . " He had to stop. "The father was downstairs, sitting on the floor with the phone in his hand. It took Ricky five minutes to get him to let it go. He wouldn't hang up, kept saying the 911 operator told him to stay on the line. Over and over, 'She told me to stay on the line.'" He turned his head away. "When Beaumont asked them if they'd hit her, they didn't even know what to say. They just looked at him, like they couldn't even understand." He shook his head. "I just don't think they did it. I think Beaumont's wrong, and I think Fletcher's too stupid to see that he's wrong. But what do I know? I'm just a uniform, a lousy beat cop. Why should they listen to what I think?"

"What evidence do they have against the parents?" Ben asked.

"Nothing," Mike said bitterly. "Not a damn thing. And there's something else. After we got the mother away, she was going on about her daughter's things. She kept saying, 'It's gone, it's gone.'"

"What was gone?"

"I don't know. I tried to ask her, but then the Wonder Twins showed up and took over, and had them both convicted before they even walked through the door. But I think there was someone else there." He paused. "And I think maybe this little girl wasn't the first."

Ben felt his brows go up. "What makes you say that?"

Mike hesitated. "I don't know," he said again. "Just a feeling. But there was just something . . . out of place. The way she was found. In her room, on the bed. The room was trashed, a mess, but the bed was made, and she was on it, like she'd been laid out. And the mother talking about stuff missing." Mike smiled sheepishly. "Maybe I'm thinking too much. Reading one too many serial killer profiles."

"But surely the other detectives saw that, too."

"Yeah, but they didn't care. They thought it was remorse from the parents or some crap like that. Put 'em in jail, close the case." Mike turned back. "Anyway, it's not my problem anymore, is it?" he added softly, and his face was lined with bitterness. "Not my job."

They didn't speak again for a while. "I can look into the case," Ben offered. "It's a homicide, it's going to come through my office one way or another."

For a moment, he thought Mike might take him up on it. Then he shook his head. "No. Thanks, but not yet. Beaumont might come around." He didn't sound too optimistic.

"Well, let me know." Ben paused again. "If it helps, I'll make sure that when it _does_ come through, it's my case. I'll make sure it's done right."

Mike squeezed his hand. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He reached out to pull Ben close to him, and kissed him. "Just don't tell them how you found out, okay?"

Ben answered his smile. "Okay, it's a deal."

Mike kissed him again, and then let him go to stretch his arms, sprawling out over his generous half of the bed, tossing sheets every which way. "Shower?" he asked, sliding a hand over to fondle Ben's shoulder, making it sound like a seduction. "You never did finish the tour."

Ben was happy to oblige, and they spent a warm, wet, and slippery half-hour in the tile-lined shower. It might have evolved into another hour's lovemaking in the stinging spray if Mike hadn't finally, reluctantly, cut things short.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking the towel that Ben handed him and rubbing it over his hair until it stood on end. "Ricky and I have to walk through the scene with the detectives in the morning. Then we've got our shift, and then I've got my first class the next day. God knows when I'm going to get another day off."

"It's all right," Ben assured him, hiding his disappointment. "I can hardly complain, after all." He wrapped himself in a bathrobe as Mike finished drying off, then followed him into the bedroom to watch him resume his clothes. "Call me when you have some spare time," he said. "We'll get together."

"Sure." Mike's smile was like sunshine. "You'd better believe it." He finished tying his shoes and stood, crossing the room to give Ben a long, thorough kiss. "Good night," he said, and stroked Ben's face with his thumbs, cupping his palms around his jaw. "And thanks," he added. "For everything." He kissed him again, soft and light as a feather's brush, then turned and was gone.

\-----

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Mike got home. He let himself in, yawning tiredly, and checked the machine. One message.

"Hey, Mikey, this is your partner. Man, Beaumont is still smoking. Too bad you can't stay out of his way next few. Looking forward to the walk-through tomorrow, I can tell you that. But, the reason I was calling is to tell you that you may be on to something. I hung around after your little waltz with our boys in suits, and something hit the shit pile right after you left. Not sure what it was, but Mr. Beaumont did not look so pleased with himself when I left. Thought you'd like to know. Later."

The phone was sitting right next to the machine. He only hesitated a second before picking it up and dialing a number.

"Yeah?" Ricky's voice was slurred with sleep, the short greeting barely a muffled mumble.

"Caruso. It's Logan."

"Mikey? What the fuck time is it?" There was a pause, and the faint rustle of sheets, then Ricky was back. "Two in the fuckin' morning? This had better be good."

"I just got your message. About Beaumont. What hit the fan?"

"Jeez Mikey, I don't know," Ricky yawned. "Can't it wait til morning, man?"

"No. Come on, tell me."

"Look, all I saw was Beaumont coming out of the interrogation room looking like six kinds of furious, then he and Fletcher got into it in the can. Beaumont was screaming about why hadn't Fletcher done this, or done that, and he was saying that they might have to let the Marstons go."

"No kidding."

"Yeah." Ricky gave another gargantuan yawn. "Is that all, teach? Can I go now?"

"Yeah, sure. See you in the morning."

"See you _this_ morning. Bye."

Mike hung up. _It's none of your business,_ he told himself. _It's Beaumont's case, screwed up though he may be. He's got twenty years on the force, you've got two. He's been a homicide detective for over a decade, you've never been assigned a case of your own. He's got the experience, the knowledge, and in a few hours he'll have access to reports on every microbe of that crime scene. If something's missing, he'll catch it. If the parents are telling the truth, he'll find out. You hope._

"Shit." Mike went to the kitchen, pulled down a bottle of whiskey, and poured two fingers into a glass. He hefted it, stared at it, then poured it back in. He went to the table, where his class books were stacked in an untidy pile, and opened one to a random page. He stared at that, with about as much enthusiasm as he'd regarded the whiskey, and in the end put it back, too.

He'd never met Elizabeth, Ben's daughter. Ben talked about her a lot, casual mentions mostly, remarking that Elizabeth liked that movie, that was Elizabeth's favorite color. There were pictures of her behind Ben's desk, a smiling child with her father's brilliant eyes and clouds of fine blond hair. He could imagine her sitting on Ben's knee, could see her next to him at Shea, cheering on the Mets. Now, thanks to Mimi Marston, he could also see her lying on the bed of her big, airy room in Ben Stone's condo, her body broken and battered. Thanks to him, Ben Stone was probably seeing the same thing.

His eye fell on the phone again, and he thought longingly of the dark-paneled haven he'd left behind, of the slender, blue-eyed man in the bathrobe who'd kissed him good-bye not an hour before. It was tempting to call, to just pick up the phone and hear that voice again. But Ben had to be at work in the morning, too, and he was probably already asleep again.

Pushing the image of Ben curled up among the soft cotton sheets of that big bed aside, Mike went back to the table and picked up the book again, this time with a purpose. If he was going to be up, he might as well make it count. He opened the book to the chapter on searches, and settled down to study.

\-----

The next day, Mike dragged himself around on his patrol like a man sleepwalking, and had to put up with not a few pointed remarks on his sleeping habits from his partner.

"You look like hell," Ricky finally said, after they'd stopped the second time that afternoon for coffee. "This improving your mind stuff is all well and good, but I wouldn't mind having a partner who's awake, you understand?"

"Sorry," Mike muttered, gulping down another shot of eye-watering coffee. "I couldn't sleep last night. Don't tell me you slept like a baby, either," he added, glancing over at the faint smudges under Caruso's normally sharp green eyes.

"Yeah, okay, so I was up a little early this morning," Ricky confessed. He shot Mike a glare. "Partly thanks to getting woke up at two o'clock." He took a sip of his own coffee, grimacing at the taste. "I keep seeing her father's face," he said. "Not her, not the mother. Him, sitting there with the damn phone in his hand, like doing what he's told is going to save her." He shook his head. "I can't believe he did it."

"Join the club."

Ricky looked at him tiredly. "Don't start that again," he pleaded. "Read my lips, Mikey. It is not our case. Okay?" He tugged on the sleeve of his uniform. "See this? Uniform. Beat cop. Not detective."

"Yeah, yeah."

Ricky regarded him for a moment, then pitched his empty cup in the trash and threw up his hands. "Why do I even bother?" he said angrily. "Can't you just let this one go?"

The second cup followed the first, and Mike grabbed Ricky's arm when he would have turned away. "Hey, Enrico. Look at me." Ricky obeyed, his eyes smoldering, but holding it in. Mike shook his arm, and he pulled away roughly, glaring. Mike went on, undaunted. "You were there," he said. "Same as me. You saw what I saw, you heard what I heard. You know I'm not crazy, you know I'm not making it up."

"Look, what I saw--"

"Beaumont didn't even bother to pretend that he cared during the walk-through," Mike persisted. "He spent five minutes in the room, and that's all. He didn't even check to see if the Marstons had alibis before he fucking arrested them, okay? And now you can stand there and tell me that you honestly think Beaumont hasn't screwed up this case? Can you do that?"

It took a long time for Ricky to answer. "Look," he said at last, "I'm not saying that you're wrong, okay? I'm just asking what the hell we're supposed to do about it. We wrote our reports, we turned them in. If Beaumont's going to ignore them, I don't know what we can do about it." He shook his head, turning away. "It's making me think about it again, Mikey. I'm tired of this shit."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure," he said sarcastically. "Next train to Eastwood--"

"Eastbridge."

"Whatever--you're going to be on it. Like I haven't heard that before."

"Hey, this time I might just do it," Ricky warned. "My old man, he's already got me five places scouted out, and every time I go home he reminds me that my old room's still there. One day it won't be a bluff."

"Right." Mike checked his watch, and slapped his partner on the arm. "Come on, break's over. Let's roll."

\-----

But it bothered Mike all day. He didn't sleep much again, and at eight o'clock the next morning, Saturday, he was back on the Lower East Side, knocking on the Marston's front door.

He thought at first that John Marston was going to slam the door in his face, or worse. But after a second, the rage faded, and he stared at Mike tiredly, waiting. His face was blotched with weariness, his eyes swollen and red. Mike gave him a moment, then nodded politely.

"Hello, Mr. Marston. Do you remember me?"

After a moment he nodded. "You came . . . first. With the Italian cop."

Ricky would be pleased. "That's right." Mike realized, belatedly, that he hadn't come with any real idea of what he going to say, or how to go about putting questions to a man and woman who'd just seen the mutilated body of their only daughter. He nodded into the house. "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Marston let the door swing open, and stepped aside to let him in. "I don't supposed I can stop you," he said. "Are you going to arrest us again?" There might even have been sarcasm in the words, but it was so buried under the hopeless fatigue in his voice that Mike wasn't sure.

"No," he assured him, just to be safe. "I just wanted to talk to you for a moment. Talk to your wife, if I could."

"She's been sedated," Marston said harshly. "Being arrested for murdering her own daughter . . . she's a little upset." This time the sarcasm came through just fine, but Mike ignored it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Look, for what it's worth, I'm not so sure that the arrest wasn't a little . . . premature." Beaumont was going to kill him for that, but Mike didn't care, not if it helped open even the slightest wedge in Marston's armor. Marston hesitated, and Mike decided to press his advantage. "Look," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I'm here out of uniform, all right? On a Saturday. Doesn't that tell you something?" He swallowed, stepping a little closer. "I filled out a report," he said, slowly and deliberately. "I wrote down everything I heard and saw that day, and I gave that report to Detective Beaumont. As far as departmental policy is concerned, that's all I have to do, and that's all I should do. It's up to Detective Beaumont to decide what to do with the reports I give to him. It's up to him to decide how to act on the things I see fit to put down. Can I make this any clearer?"

"No." Marston looked away. "I'm sorry," he said, the words short, and clipped. "You were nice to her." He swallowed. "Your partner was nice to me." He turned away abruptly, waving to a chair in the crowded little living room. "Sit down, Officer . . ."

"Logan. Mike Logan. Thanks, Mr. Marston." Mike took the offered chair, and accepted a second offer of a cup of coffee. Marston brought it in a good-sized mug, with a similar cup for himself. Mike took a sip. "Good coffee," he said, and Marston grunted noncommittally.

"My wife buys it," he said, as if embarrassed to be caught drinking good coffee. "She says there's no point in buying cheap if no one drinks it." He swallowed. "I used to tell her that was the point, we buy less coffee that way." He smiled feebly, as if it were an old joke, but didn't bother to see if Mike had caught it.

"Mr. Marston." Mike hesitated, not sure where to begin. "That day, there were a couple of things I don't think we ever straightened out."

Marston closed his eyes. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but there was nothing about that day that will ever be straightened out. You know?"

"I understand," Mike said softly. He took another drink of coffee, trying to find another tack. "Your wife," he tried again. "She said that something was missing. I think it was something from your daughter's room."

"From her room?" Marston frowned. "I don't think so," he said slowly. "She didn't say anything to me."

"She kept saying 'It's gone.' Do you know what she was referring to?"

Slowly, Marston shook his head. "I have no idea," he said. "I'm sorry."

Okay. "How about you?" he persisted. "Did you notice anything missing? A keepsake, jewelry, books . . ."

"No." Marston looked away. "I haven't . . . I didn't look."

"I understand," Mike said soothingly. "Were there any signs of an intruder? Things out of place? Doors or windows open that should have been closed?"

Another headshake. "Mimi's room . . . she liked to leave the window open in the summer."

Mike waited, but that seemed to be all. "Is there any way," he asked delicately, "that I could see your wife? When she wakes up?"

"I can ask her," seemed to be best that Marston could do. "The doctor said that she should wake up after noon."

Noon. His class started at one. But Mimi Marston's ravaged body floated in front of his conscience again, and he felt himself nod. "Okay." He pulled out his notebook and wrote down his home number, tearing the sheet out to hand it over. "I'll be here all day."

\-----

Mike spent the day at home. Although Marston had said his wife wouldn't be awake for several hours, he hadn't been able to bring himself to stay out long. He ran a couple of errands, stared at books in a bookstore, stared at magazines at a newsstand, bought groceries, and, having stretched out the morning as long as he could, was back home at eleven, waiting.

No messages. He called Ricky, to remind him that they were pulling a double shift the next day, and got his answering machine. That accomplished, he hesitated for a second, then called Katy. He worked his way through two nephews and his brother-in-law, and finally word came down from on high that Katy had her hands full, and would call him back. He told Philip not to bother, it wasn't important, and he'd just call back later. He hung up.

Inexplicably, he felt an impulse to call Ben, maybe see if he could work out another date. A lame excuse, that, when he knew perfectly well that his own schedule wouldn't leave him an evening free for at least another week. Face it, he told himself, you only want to call to hear his voice, talk to him a little while. No other reason, no real reason. He sighed, then returned to the table and opened up his books.

It was stupid. This was Beaumont's case, not his, and he had no right sticking his nose in. None. He was just the first cop on the scene, and his responsibility began and ended with keeping the scene intact and the witnesses in custody until the suits arrived. After that, it was their baby, and his job became the simple one of following orders, doing what he was told. Not thinking. Not speculating. Certainly not approaching and interviewing witnesses that Beaumont and Fletcher should have all to themselves.

Marston didn't call until after four, which settled the decision of whether or not to go to class. Mike spent the time at his rickety kitchen table, studying, making notes, and wondering if he was going to ever have any use for it after all. When Marston called, he was at the phone at the first ring, snatching it off the cradle before the echo died.

"Hello," he said with passable calm.

"Officer Logan?" Marston's voice hadn't changed since that morning, tired, exhausted, and now overlain with some stress that Mike didn't care to place. "This is John Marston."

"Mr. Marston," Mike greeted him. "I'm glad you called."

"Yes, well . . ." There was a lengthy pause. "My wife wanted me to call you."

"I appreciate that."

"She's still . . . upset," he carefully euphemized. "I told her she needed to rest, but she insisted." He hesitated again, and Mike decided it was time to butt in.

"Should I come over there?" he asked carefully, wanting to give Marston the right nudge, but not wanting to strain the fragile rapport.

Another hesitation. "I think that would probably be best." Marston paused. "I think you should know--Detective Beaumont called. He wanted us to come in for another interview. I told him it was out of the question until tomorrow. Was that right?"

_Do I look like a lawyer?_ Mike didn't say. But he bit his lip on the "Yes," that was his next response, struck with guilt for having even thought it, feeling absurdly as though he'd betrayed his loyalty to the brotherhood. He might think Beaumont was messing up the case, but that didn't mean he was going to be wanting bricks tossed in his path, and encouraging a witness not to talk to Beaumont so that he could talk to _him,_ well, that went a little beyond fuzzy in the realm of ethics. Still, he rationalized, he hadn't asked Marston not to cooperate, just the opposite, in fact. Somehow, though, he didn't think Beaumont would appreciate the distinction. "You have a right to not talk to anyone you don't want to," he finally hedged. "But I'm not a lawyer," he couldn't help adding.

"Of course, of course," Marston said quickly. "I just thought you should know."

"Thanks." Mike checked his watch. Four thirty. "I can be there by five thirty. Would that be all right?"

"That's fine. We'll be here."

\-----

But when Mike arrived, a little after the appointed hour, it became clear that the Marstons wouldn't be there for long. A row of suitcases sat in the little entryway, next to a pile of blankets, pillows, and other bedding. Mr. Marston, who was there, once again, to greet Mike at the door, caught his significant glance at the pile of luggage, and shrugged. "My sister-in-law offered us a place to stay with her," he said. "She said we shouldn't--" He swallowed. "She said we should get out of the house."

"That sounds like a good idea," Mike said comfortingly, but Marston didn't seem to hear. He led Mike back to the living room, gesturing him to the same chair as before, and then sat down on the couch, next to his wife.

Mrs. Marston acknowledged his presence with a faint nod, but didn't otherwise move from her passive slump on the couch, her plump hands lying limply in her lap. She looked as though her enforced sleep had done her very little good, leaving her dazed and groggy instead of rested, her face numb with a kind of stuporous weariness. As Mike sat down, another woman appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray with mugs of coffee, and set it down on the coffee table. She was older than Mrs. Marston by some years, her dark hair shot through with thick bands of silver, and her thin face lined with wrinkles.

"This is Stephanie Fleming, Doris's sister," Mr. Marston said. "Steph, this is Officer Logan."

"Would you like some coffee, Officer?" Mrs. Fleming offered, acknowledging Mike's nod with a thin brittle smile. She was in better shape than either of the Marstons, but her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and the hands that clutched the coffee cups were white-knuckled. Mike took the coffee, less because he wanted it than because he wanted to give her something to do, something to distract them all while he delayed the inevitable confrontation with Mrs. Marston.

To his surprise, though, it was Mrs. Marston who chose to do the confronting. After the coffee cups had been handed around, she finally stirred from her torpor, sitting up on the couch and smoothing her hands down the folds of her skirt.

"Mr. Logan," she said softly, and the quiet words fell clearly into the silence as the other three stopped to look at her. "Officer," she tried again. "My husband told me that you wanted to ask me some questions."

Mike swallowed hot coffee hastily. "Yes, ma'am," he said, working to keep his voice quiet, professional. Soothing, but not condescending, brisk but not cold. _Ben,_ he thought distractedly, _where the hell are you when I need you?_ But then he thought of what Ben would do if he were here, thought about exactly how Ben would adjust that lawyer's voice of his to address the woman sitting opposite him. When he spoke, by golly, it sounded all right. "I kept thinking about something you said that day. Something I never got the chance to ask you about."

Mrs. Marston swallowed, nodding. "I remember." She closed her eyes, breathing deep. "Please, ask."

He considered briefly whether to pretend to consult his notes, to give her time to prepare herself, but he didn't want to disturb their tableau. "It's about what you said when I took you away from Mimi's--" He stalled over the word 'body,' and quickly corrected himself. "--room. Do you remember?"

She shook her head. "No. No, I don't."

"You said, 'It's gone.' You kept trying to tell me that, like you noticed something missing. It seemed very important."

For a moment, she stared at him blankly, her round, blotched face sagging with strain and grief. "I don't . . . remember."

Hiding his disappointment, Mike shot a pleading glance to her husband, hoping that he could somehow influence her, that he would know the words to say to unlock the memory. But Mr. Marston was an equal blank. Doggedly, Mike tried again. "You said it several times," he persisted. "You were insistent that something was gone." Desperately, he cast his mind back, trying to sift through his own jumbled memories of the scene, seeing if he could find something to trigger her recollection. "It might have been a ring," he said at last, and lifted his own hands, clasping one palm with the other. "You kept doing this, pointing to your own hand."

Again, she stared, but as he repeated the gesture, the color suddenly drained from her face, so rapidly that her sister jumped to her feet, alarmed.

"Doris . . .!"

Shaking, Mrs. Marston raised her hands to her face, then held them in front of her, staring at them as if she'd never seen them before. "Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, God. Her hands, her hands . . ."

Gently, Mike prodded her. "What about her hands, Mrs. Marston?"

She gulped. "Her hands . . ." She began to sob, quietly, the tears brimming and flowing down her face. "Her finger--" She turned to her husband. "Her finger!" she sobbed. "He cut off her finger!" Then she broke down, wailing into her husband's shoulder, her back heaving under his ineffectual caresses.

"Oh, God." Stephanie Fleming looked sick. She set down her coffee mug, watching her sister with distress. "Oh, my God." She got up and went quickly into the kitchen.

Taking his cue, Mike followed, leaving the Marstons alone for a while with their grief. "Mrs. Fleming?" She turned to look at him. "Did your sister mention this to you?"

She looked shocked. "No! Poor thing, she must not have even remembered it. Who would?" She shook her head. "No."

Encouraged by her seeming willingness to talk, Mike went on. "But the Medical Examiner didn't find any missing fingers or toes. She was beaten, but not mutilated."

For a minute, he wondered if she was going to faint. Her face paled, then the color returned in a flush. "It must be . . ." She swallowed, her face turning a sickly hue. "Mimi had . . . a birth defect." Unconsciously, her left hand lifted to rub at the side of her right palm. "An extra finger. Just a little one." She touched her hand. "Right here. That must be what Doris saw. What they . . ." She turned away, biting at her lip.

That was it. Mike closed his eyes. 'It's gone.' Jesus.

Despite his sudden urgency to get the hell out of there, to leave the Marstons in peace, he knew there was one thing he needed to do, one thing he needed to ensure happened. "Mrs. Fleming," he said gently, and waited until she turned back, composed again. "Mrs. Fleming, I need to talk to your brother-in-law again. Just for a minute. Could you ask him to come in here?"

After a moment, in which he was half-sure she was going to smack him and tell him to go to hell, Mrs. Fleming simply nodded and left. Mike waited there, in the Marstons' bright yellow-tiled kitchen, watching the minutes tick by on a pansy-faced clock until finally Mr. Marston returned.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Mike said before he could interject anything. "I'll be gone in just a minute."

Reluctantly, Marston nodded. "All right."

Mike breathed deep. "You've got to tell Detective Beaumont about this."

"Can't you--"

"No," Mike interrupted. "Look, like I told you, I'm not supposed to be here. This is Beaumont's case, and I'm messing around in it. If he finds out I talked to you, he'll have my butt up on charges before I can kiss it good-bye."

"But how--?"

"Just tell him the truth." Mike nodded towards the living room. "That your wife was traumatized, that she didn't remember the missing finger until today. You don't have to tell him who else was in the room when she remembered. You understand?"

Slowly, Mr. Marston nodded. "Yes," he said. "I think I do." He nodded again. "Thank you, Officer. Can you . . .?"

"I'll show myself out."

\-----

On the sidewalk, Mike considered his options. It was still early, not even seven o'clock. He could catch the last hour of lecture at John Jay, and get there in time to take the weekly test. Or, he could continue to flush the rest of his career down the toilet. He closed his eyes, trying to decide, and the scene imprinted on the inside of his mind was all he needed. He turned and looked for a pay phone.

The assistant who answered the phone at the Medical Examiner's office sound young and bored, and Mike sent up a brief prayer to the saint that watched over cops. "Yeah, this is Detective Beaumont from the Ninth Precinct," he said, lightening his voice and trying to speak through his nose. "I was supposed to get a report from you guys on the Marston case."

There was a brief pause. "We're still finishing up, Detective," the assistant said with a twinge of annoyance. "You should get something by morning."

Mike made what he hoped was an impatient noise. "I'm afraid that's not good enough," he growled. "Didn't you write up a preliminary report? Something?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

"Great. Look, I'm sending a uniform down there to pick up whatever you've got, okay?"

"Okay." The clerk was irritated, his eagerness to get Mike off his back almost palpable. "But there won't be much until the examination is complete."

"Yeah, yeah. He'll be there in an hour." Mike hung up.

When he arrived at the morgue, properly uniformed, an hour later, he found the place nearly deserted. There were bodies under sheets waiting in the main autopsy room, but there was no sign of Mimi Marston, or of the doctors who were supposedly conducting her autopsy. There was only a lone lab-coated doctor, scribbling busily at a desk while munching on a soggy sandwich. As Mike came in, she favored him with a single assessing glance, then returned to her work. "You Beaumont?" she asked.

It didn't take any acting lessons for him to make a faintly disgusted face at the suggestion. "No," he said shortly. "Logan. I'm just here on Beaumont's behalf."

That got another glare, but this time it was one of commiseration. "Well, next time tell him he can bring his own exalted carcass down here, okay?"

"I'll pass that along," Mike promised blandly. He tilted his head, looking down at the report she seemed to be filling out. "Is that it?"

"Martha Miranda Marston," she confirmed. "Parents had a thing for consistency." She continued scribbling, and took a last bite of the sandwich, finishing it off. She looked as though she didn't miss too many meals, but what Mike could see under the lab coat was nicely formed, shaped in all the right places. Her hair was a reddish-blond, held back with a clip from a finely-featured, light-eyed face. When she'd swallowed, she went on. "I don't understand this sudden urgency," she said, staring down at her writing, but still sliding a quick, questioning glance Mike's way. "Someone light a fire under Beaumont?"

Mike shrugged. "I guess."

"Well, you can tell him that long-term abuse is right out, and so is sexual assault. No signs of old injuries, no indications of any sexual activity."

"He wanted you to look for that?" Mike inquired casually.

She shrugged. "He asked about it," she confirmed. "Seemed to be asking about the parents."

Big surprise. "I see." Mike nodded down at the report. "So it was a one-time thing. The beating."

"Once was enough," she said testily, and looked up at him again. "Multiple blunt-force trauma. Probably a club or a baseball bat."

Mike feigned surprise. "No cuts? What about the blood?" He steeled himself as she looked at him again, this time as if he were an idiot. He swallowed his pride, though, and did his best to look curious, inquiring . . . dim.

"She was pummeled to death with a club," the doctor said sharply. "You don't expect blood from that?"

"Oh." Mike was still puzzled. "I guess I made a mistake. I thought I heard someone say something about her being cut. Some kind of mutilation, missing finger or something."

Now she was looking up at him suspiciously. "I saw nothing like that."

"Nothing on her hands?" he persisted. "Fletcher was asking Beaumont about it, seemed to think it was important."

At the sound of Beaumont's name, her face tightened. "Well, he didn't say anything to me," she said, and sighed heavily, dropping her eyes to stare down at her pad. "Shit," she said gloomily.

"Will you have to delay the report?"

She glared up again, as if she'd forgotten he was there. Or hoped he'd gone away. "No," she said finally, and stood up. "If your Mr. High and Mighty can stand to wait another half hour, I'll go re-check her hands now. Anything to get him off my back."

Mike gave her his best "my lips are sealed" grin. "Hey, you see me in a hurry to get back?" he asked, and was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.

"Help yourself to coffee," she said, heading for the back of the room. "This shouldn't take long."

She returned within thirty minutes, her face grim, but her eyes looking at Mike with new respect. "Someone oughta give Fletcher a raise," she said, and sat down at her desk again, flipping through the open file and reaching for her pen.

"You find something?"

"Yeah." She sounded surprised. "Her hands were a mess, beaten to a pulp when she tried to protect herself. Broken bones, compound fractures . . . I never would have seen it if I hadn't been looking," she admitted in a burst of frankness. "But Fletcher was right. There's a definite severing cut, on the right hand. Small, easy to miss with the other damage."

"A severed finger?"

"A vestigial finger. When I looked, I found a minute bone spur on the X-Ray of the other hand, one that never developed. Judging from the size of the cut, and the lack of a joint, I'd say it was a pretty small deformity, probably not more than a small nub."

"But it was cut off," Mike confirmed. "Not broken or torn off."

She nodded. "Without a doubt." She glanced at the report, and then at the clock. "Look, I hate to spoil your fun, but this new stuff is going to take some time to write up. And I'd like to do some more X-Rays, and some more work on that severed finger before I turn in my final report." She sat forward, sorting among the piles on her desk until she got her hands on a slim folder. "Here's the preliminary report," she said, holding it up to Mike. "Maybe that will pacify him until morning."

Mike hesitated. "Would you mind if I waited?"

Slowly, she turned and looked up at him, searching his face as if she'd never looked at before. "Why?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, no offense, but I'm a little surprised at all the zeal on behalf of a putz like Beaumont."

Now it was Mike's turn to pause. "I'm not," he said finally. "Let's just say I'm doing it as a favor to Mimi Marston."

That rated a full turn, her sneakered toe pushing the chair around until she faced him full-on. She checked him out again, head to toe, and for the first time she seemed to like what she saw. A corner of her mouth quirked up, and she leaned back, lacing her hands over her stomach. "I'm getting a funny feeling that I've been the victim of a con."

Mike let his brows go up. "Whatever would make you think that?" he asked innocently. "Is it so unusual for a policeman to be interested in the details of an autopsy?"

A brow quirked up. "Not if he's the investigating officer. But you aren't." She tilted back in the swivel chair, rocking gently. Waiting.

Mike gave up. "Look," he said. "Frank Beaumont is an asshole. You know it, I know it." Mike took a deep breath. "He thinks the parents did it. I think he's wrong." He paused, and softened his voice, leaning forward. "I _know_ he's wrong. I just want to make sure the bastard that did this doesn't get away. That's all."

They locked eyes for an instant. Then she turned away, whirling around to face her desk again. "I should be done in about an hour," she said. "After I finish my shift, I sometimes like to go to the bar around the corner and have a drink. And sometimes I take my reports there and look them over." She looked at her watch. "Yep. Around ten thirty tonight, I might just be there. I'm partial to Bloody Marys"

Slowly, Mike nodded. "Okay. Thanks for your help. Maybe I'll see you around . . . um . . ."

"Dr. Coyne. Heather." She smiled. "Anytime, Officer."

\-----

Ben checked his watch, and then the clock on the wall. Nine o'clock. A world record for a Saturday night. He stepped softly to the open door of the bedroom, switching off the light as he turned to go. But even as he reached the door, he paused, turning back to see the still shape tucked under the covers, blond hair spilling over the pillow in the faint light from the hall. Elizabeth slept like a child should sleep, contented, safe, secure in her own bed. Snoring.

The smile faded from Ben's face as he studied his daughter, the shape of her features blurred in the dimness. Mimi Marston hadn't been safe. Not in her own bed, not in her own house. Not even with her parents to protect her, if Mike was to be believed.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and Ben went down the hall to his own room, hands shoved in his pockets. He'd been keeping up with the Marston case, not just in the papers, but in the gossip around One Hogan Place and Centre Street. So far, the word was that John and Doris Marston were deadbang guilty. Never mind their alibi, never mind their hysterical call to the police, and never mind the police hadn't even had enough evidence to hold them more than a few hours. Their daughter was dead, and they were to blame.

Ben knew that it was entirely possible that Mike was being naive. Two years on the force had taken away a lot of innocence, but it was possible that Mike hadn't yet accepted that most terrible of truths, that parents sometimes did kill their own children. Then he thought back to the Websters, and blushed.

He was just taking off his shoes when the phone rang. Although there was no phone in Elizabeth's room, he snatched it up quickly, not wanting to disturb her. "Stone," he said.

"Hello, Ben."

Ben felt his stomach tense. "Hello, Helen."

He could hear soft music in the background, the quiet clatter and conversation of a dinner party or a restaurant. "I was just calling to see if Elizabeth got to bed."

Deep breath. "Elizabeth is fine. She swam like a fish all day, and when she went to bed it was entirely her idea. She's asleep now."

"Oh." Ben could swear Helen almost sounded disappointed. "Well. She needs to be back early tomorrow evening."

Another deep breath, count to ten . . . "I know, Helen. I'll bring her here right after the game. Like I always do." He sighed. "Helen, you don't have to call and check up on me every time Elizabeth comes to spend the night. I think Elizabeth and I are both old enough to know how to behave ourselves."

Helen ignored him. "Very well. I'll expect her tomorrow, then. Good-bye." She hung up.

Ben replaced the receiver with a tired sigh, and let himself fall backward onto the bed. _Dear Helen,_ he thought wryly, and then smiled as he looked up at the pleated spiral of the canopy overhead, his thoughts drifting away from his ex-wife to someone entirely different.

\-----

It was almost eleven by the time Dr. Coyne walked into the bar. Despite having to go to the station to change back to his civvies and then return, Mike had already been holding down the back booth he'd commandeered for nearly forty-five minutes. He'd also had to buy two beers with generous tips to keep the waitresses off his back. The second beer still sat in front of him, getting warm. He was wondering if he'd be forced to drink it, too, when the doctor finally pushed her way through the crowd and slid into the booth.

"Hi," she said breathlessly. "Sorry I'm late. The damn photocopier was on the fritz, I had to truck all the way to the third floor."

"It's all right." Mike caught the eye of his old friend the waitress, and held up a finger. She nodded, and a short while later she delivered a Bloody Mary and a third, unordered, beer. Mike paid her off, with another tip, and pushed the warm beer aside.

"Thanks." Dr. Coyne stirred her drink with the celery stalk, and took a generous sip. "Ah," she said in satisfaction. "That hits the spot." She took another drink, then pushed the glass to one side and reached beside her for her briefcase. "Here you go," she said, pulling out a thick folder and slipping across the table. "Mimi Marston's last words."

Mike took it, surprised. "This is a copy?" She nodded. "Of everything?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Mike could think of a thousand reasons, but settled for, "I don't want to get either of us in trouble, Dr. Coyne."

She gave him a look. "What for? You're a cop. I work for cops. Your name's on the case file. If I can't tell you, who can I tell? And I'm off duty, it's Heather."

"You've got a point." He smiled. "Heather." Mike flipped quickly through the thick stack, skimming over the pages of notes. "Lot of work here," he remarked. "Can I get a summary?"

Heather shrugged. "Well, I already told you the cause of death. Massive internal bleeding as the result of repeated blunt force trauma. No sign of previous abuse. Tox screen was clean, victim appeared healthy."

"What about the missing finger?"

"Cut off after death, which is interesting. Wounds like that, she could have hung around for as long as an hour or more. Unconscious, but still alive."

"So they waited a while before they mutilated her."

"Presumably." Heather reached over the table, thumbing through the stack of photocopied paper until she found a particular document. It was a photocopy of a photograph, grainy and suffering from the transition from color to black and white, but it showed enough. "These blood smudges on her neck. Someone was checking her pulse."

"Like me," Mike said, and startled himself with the harshness of his voice. He took a gulp of tepid beer, hoping to disguise his sudden unease, and nearly choked as the suddenly vile stuff slid down his throat. He cleared his throat, and tapped the picture. "I felt her neck when I got there. She was stone cold."

"I know," Heather said patiently. "But the smudges were put there before that. When you arrived, she'd been dead nearly two hours. The blood was dry or drying. These were put on fresh."

Now he wished he hadn't drunk the beer. "They made sure she was dead. Waited for it. Then they cut off the finger."

"Exactly." She searched for another picture. "He used some kind of sharp tool. A single-edge blade, like a utility knife or maybe a scalpel. Very clean cut, very neat. One stroke. This guy wasn't squeamish."

"Maybe he'd had practice," Mike muttered, and got a pair of raised eyebrows.

"A doctor?" she said doubtfully.

Mike shook his head. "No. Never mind. Just thinking out loud."

Heather sighed, and drained her drink. "Cops," she said. "Well, it's all yours now. Good luck." She tilted the glass back to catch the last drops, and set it down on the table.

"You want another?"

She hesitated, and he saw a faint flush start up her cheeks. "Maybe," she said, and a smile began to play over her lips. "If you're volunteering to be my designated driver, too."

Mike grinned back. "I think I can arrange that." He signaled the waitress for another round.

\-----

He drove Heather home around twelve-thirty. They'd filled up the time in the bar with shop talk, not just about the Marston case, but swapping stories about, it seemed, every case they'd ever worked on. Heather struck Mike as being plenty smart enough, but she seemed oddly uncurious about the bodies that passed through her morgue. Once she'd decided how they died, the people lost interest for her. She usually didn't even bother to follow the case in the papers, and unless she was called to testify she generally didn't even remember the names a month later.

"I'm not a cop," she said when Mike expressed surprise. "That's your job. You want to know who did it, and why. I just care about how."

All the same, the talk had been easy, and carefree, and things were progressing in a long-familiar direction by the time Mike walked her out to his car and drove her to her apartment on the Upper West Side. She wasn't really even tipsy by then, but neither of them had suggested that she drive herself home. Neither of them were surprised when she asked Mike up for coffee, and he accepted.

Once in her apartment, the embrace was natural, the kiss expected. She was warm and soft and pliant in his arms, her breasts pressed to his chest, her hips curving gently under his hands. He felt himself responding to her, heard her little gasp of desire as her thigh rubbed against him, feeling the hardness in his groin.

But it was all wrong. His body wanted her, was willing and ready to take possession of the soft, smooth flesh she was offering. It would be so good, so sweet, to bury himself in her, to thrust into that hot, silky tightness. She was willing, he was willing, there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't do it.

No reason at all.

Something in his posture must have alerted her, some hesitation, or sudden withdrawal in his kiss. She pulled back, breathing hard, her eyes searching his. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

_Nothing, I'm fine,_ Mike ordered his lips to say, but then listened, appalled, as he heard, "No, I'm not." His hands reached up to frame her face, brushing her hair back. Pushing her gently away. "Heather," he said unsteadily. "I'm sorry. I--can't." It was an effort to force the words out, his uncertainty palpable even to him.

"Why?" she asked. "I mean, I thought--" She bit her lip, her face reddening with embarrassment.

"I know," Mike said hastily. "I did, too," he added frankly. But then he shook his head. "But I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why?" she asked again, and now her voice was turning hurt, and angry. "Just remembered an early shift? You left the coffeepot on? Remembered you had a girlfriend?"

"It's nothing like that," he said quickly, and didn't realize it was even a lie until he heard it in his own voice. "It's not that," Mike tried again, firmly. "I just . . . I don't think it would be a good idea. It's not you," he offered feebly.

Slowly, the color began to fade from her cheeks. Heather stepped back, pushing her hands through her hair. "It's all right," she said, and she sounded as if she really meant it. "I know how it is." She smiled wanly. "You're going along with your life, trying to have a good time, and the next thing you know those damn faces are in your head. Plays hell with your love life when you close your eyes and see nothing but dead bodies."

Mike nodded, grasping the excuse she offered. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wouldn't have . . . I didn't mean to lead you on. I wasn't leading you on."

"It's okay," Heather said. "I understand." She laughed. "I wouldn't have been a barrel of laughs, either." She held out her hand. "Let's just try to retreat with what little dignity we have left, all right?"

Feeling like a heel, Mike shook her hand. "All right. Good night, Heather."

"Good night, Mike. Good luck on your case."

"Thanks." Mike released her hand, already regretting the loss of the small, firm grip. He turned to go.

"Hey, Mike." Mike turned back. She was smiling. "Let me know how this one turns out, all right? I think I'd like to know."

"Sure." He smiled back at her. "I'll do that. Thanks."

\-----

Mike returned home in a foul mood, tired, frustrated, and more than a little annoyed with himself for his behavior. It had been stupid to lead her on, stupid and cruel. Not just for her, either. _Face it,_ Mike, he told himself irritably, _you wanted to do it._ Right up to the last minute, he had every intention of getting her in bed as soon as it was decent. When the moment came, though he couldn't follow through. Wouldn't. He couldn't even tell himself why.

Maybe he just didn't want to.

It was almost a relief when the phone jangled noisily from the kitchen. Ignoring the fact that it was nearly two in the morning, and not even caring who had the nerve to call him at this hour, he snatched it up, barking, "Logan!" into the receiver.

There was a startled pause. "Mike? It's Ricky."

Mike took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I just got in."

"Oh, sorry." There was something wrong with Ricky's voice. It was too quiet, too subdued, his Brooklyn vowels thickened and mellowed. "I tried to call you before, figured you were on a date."

Mike glanced down at the blinking message light on his machine. "Nah," he half-lied. "I was just following up some stuff." He paused. "Is everything okay? You don't sound good."

It took Ricky a minute to answer. "My mom had a heart attack," he finally said, flatly, as though he could squeeze away every emotion from the words. "She's in the hospital in Eastbridge. She's pretty bad."

"Oh, jeez. Ricky, man, I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Cool, composed. "I was calling you to tell you because I won't be in for my shift tomorrow." Ricky paused again. "Actually, I probably won't be in for a long time." He stopped to clear his throat. "I'm taking a leave of absence. Indefinitely." He breathed again. "My old man, he's falling apart. He can't handle it, he needs somebody to be there."

"Oh." Mike blinked. "What about your other brothers? I thought--"

"He wants me there." Mike heard Ricky pause, heard him breathe deep. "Hey, I was always his favorite," he said with forced lightness, then swallowed. "He asked me to come, Mikey. Come and stay."

"Oh. Oh. Wow. So," Mike said, "I guess you're finally following through on that threat."

Ricky gave a short, choked laugh. "Yeah. Looks like it." Silence again. "Mike, I'm sorry to do this to you. I feel bad, dumping you in the middle of the rotation, leaving you a double tomorrow by yourself."

"Hey," Mike cut him off. "Hey, forget it. Your family needs you, all right? You don't have to apologize for that." He thought for a moment. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"

"Well, actually, that's kinda the other reason I was calling." Mike heard him shift, heard the faint rustle of paper from the other end of the line. "I've been in Eastbridge all day, at the hospital with my mom, talking to the rest of the family. It looks like I'm going to be there a long time, and, to be honest, that's put me in a bind with my lease. I've decided to move out as soon as I can--soon as I get packed, actually," he added frankly. "But if I don't find somebody to sublet fast I'm going to get stuck for the rent on a place I don't even use."

Mike was taken aback. "That fast?" He forced a laugh. "I'm not going to go to work tomorrow and find the CIA waiting for me, am I?"

That got a laugh in return, feeble and stilted, but a laugh. "No." Ricky paused. "But I'd be lying if I said I was fighting hard to stick around here. I've been away too long. They need me back home."

"I understand," Mike lied. "You getting any help?"

"Some of my brothers can come down, when I'm ready," Ricky said, and Mike nodded. Even "some" of Ricky's brothers were a small army. They'd have him cleaned out faster than a plague of locusts. "I'm leaving most of the furniture. I won't use it and it's not worth hauling back." He hesitated. "Anyway, what I'm asking is whether or not you want the place. It's twelve hundred a month, utilities included, and the rent's paid until the end of September. I figure that'll help cover your moving costs. You don't have to tell me now," he added quickly. "I can wait a couple of weeks. But I wanted to give you first shot at it."

"Well, thanks. I'll think about it, yeah. Thanks."

"Hey, I'm your partner, right?" Ricky's laugh was a little weak, but he sounded all right. "Look, I'm going to let you go, let you get some sleep."

"You're going to be all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm getting some packing done. I can't sleep," he added matter-of-factly. "I might as well keep busy."

"I can come over," Mike offered, even though his tired body screamed protest at the mere thought of doing anything but falling into bed. "Maybe help you, keep you company, whatever."

"No, that's okay. I'll be all right. But thanks. I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you do that." Mike swallowed. "You take care, Ricky, okay?"

"Sure. You, too. Good night, Mike."

"Good night." Mike hung up.

Damn. Well, he'd finally done it. Never mind that it took a crisis, and a terrible one at that, but Mike had never really thought that Ricky would go. So long as he griped, so long as he grumbled and complained and threatened, Mike had never really considered seriously that he might actually go through with it one day. Well, looked like today was that day.

Mike left the message light blinking on the machine, and went into the bed alcove, shutting the lights off on the way. He pulled off his clothes and fell into bed, hoping that he was too tired to do anything but sleep. He was wrong.

He dozed for a while, half-convincing himself that he was falling asleep, lulled by the unusually pleasant breeze across the bed. But the more his body relaxed, the faster his mind worked, churning over the events of the day. Ricky's mother. Mimi Marston's mother and father. His skipped class, his failed test. And last, but not least, Heather Coyne.

Mike tried pushing her out of his mind, tried focusing on the details of the Marston case, summoning Mimi's grisly corpse as a gruesome escape from thoughts of Heather. But every time he tried to think about the case, tried to piece together the scenario that led to Mimi lying dying on her bed, he thought of the woman who'd been responsible for her after her death, who'd compiled the reports he was trying to make sense of. Finally, he had to admit defeat.

Deep down, though, he also had to admit that it wasn't really Heather Coyne who had caused the problem. Just as it wasn't Heather who'd been the reason he'd stopped himself from taking her to bed. As stupid as it seemed, as irrational as it probably was, he hadn't had sex with Heather because he would have felt, in his heart, that he was being unfaithful. Unfaithful to Ben Stone.

That realization was enough to make him sit upright in the bed, all pretense of sleep gone. Okay, he and Ben had been dating, but that was all. No commitments, no promises of monogamy, nothing to prevent either of them from doing anything they pleased. Mike preferred it that way, and he'd thought that Ben's silence on the matter was a tacit agreement to do likewise. Hell, they'd only seen each other once in the last two weeks. Surely that hardly qualified for a dating relationship, much less an exclusive one. Yet, Mike had still turned Heather down. He'd do it again.

With an irritated grumble, he kicked the sheets off and got up, naked, to pace the length of the apartment. Him and Ben. A couple. A relationship. He stopped in front of the window, breathing deep, not caring which denizens of New York City he might happen to be flashing.

He couldn't understand why it was bothering him so much. Ben was a nice guy. He'd liked him from the start, despite the lawyer thing, and he hadn't found reason to change his opinion. Ben was an original, one of those guys that could talk about morals, and ethics, and really mean it. Mike didn't find much of that these days. Then there was that rare, sweet smile, those blue eyes, and that long, lean body that Ben disguised under blue suits and conservative ties. Smart. Good-looking. Fantastic in bed.

Mike turned away from the window, glaring down at his sudden erection. Just the thought of Ben was enough, huh? He went over and sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring his own arousal bobbing between his legs. _The perfect man,_ he thought bitterly. _Intelligent, sexy, and rich. Just the kind of guy who'd love to shack up with a working-class Irish cop from the Lower East Side._

That was the problem. Mike knew the attraction was mutual. He knew that Ben cared about him, knew that he'd probably go for that extra step, for making a commitment, even a token one. But what then? How long could it go on before the inevitable happened, before Ben found someone more like him? Someone with a law degree, who'd gone to an Ivy-league school, who'd grown up in the same world that Ben had grown up in. Right now, about the only thing they had in common was what they did in this stupid bed. That wasn't enough. That was when Mike realized, with a sobering, gut-shriveling chill, that he wanted nothing less than to have Ben Stone all to himself. Forever.

The thought frightened him so much that he got up and grabbed his clothes from the floor, yanking on jeans and shirt, and shoving his feet into socks and sneakers. Then he grabbed his keys and split out the door. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know what he'd do when he got there. But he had to get out of here, out of this place with all its memories of him and Ben.

He was halfway down to his car when he realized that he was mentally mapping the route back to the Upper West Side. Not Heather's apartment. Ricky's. And why not? He wanted to get away from his apartment, and Ricky had just offered him the ultimate solution. Ricky had a decent place, and twelve hundred a month wasn't that much more than he was paying here for a shabby studio under the eaves. He could go over and tell him right now, get it off his mind. Ricky would probably appreciate the company. Thus armed with excuses, Mike headed for the car.

\-----

Ricky opened the door after the first knock, assuaging Mike's first fear that he'd gone to sleep after all. He regarded Mike with absolutely no surprise, and gestured him in with a tired smile. "I thought it might be you," he said, and followed him into the living room, kicking aside a pile of empty boxes to let Mike have access to the couch. He was barefoot, dressed in old, faded jeans and a thin white T-shirt, both smudged with dirt and sweat. "You want a beer? Coffee?"

"No, thanks." Mike took a look around. "You've been busy," he said, noting the piled boxes, the stripped shelves and scattered odds and ends.

"Yeah." Ricky pushed his hands through his hair, staring around at the chaos. "It's giving me something to do, I'll say that much." He wiped his hands on his jeans, and started for the kitchen. "I'm going to get some water. Sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm sure." Mike followed him to the kitchen, watched him stretch up for a glass, the shirt straining over his broad shoulders, uncurling just a little from the tuck at the small of his back. About then, Mike realized why he'd really come over, why he'd driven all the way up here in the middle of the night. He wondered why it even surprised him.

He also wondered what he planned to do about it.

Oblivious to Mike's stare, Ricky filled the glass from the tap and took a long drink, then filled it again. Mike searched for something to say. "About the apartment." He waited until Ricky turned toward him before going on. "I've been thinking it over. It sounds like a good deal."

"It is," Ricky said, not even bothering to hide his relief. "Hey, you think I'd give it up for anything less?" He gestured with the glass. "It's a nice place." He grinned. "Bigger than yours." He swallowed more water. "So long as you won't be eating any big fees on your lease."

Mike shook his head. "Nah. I've got a month to month right now. No problem."

Ricky spread his hands. "Hey. Match made in heaven." He drained the water, and blew out a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Man. That's one less thing to worry about."

"I'm sorry about your mother," Mike offered presently. "I know you were close."

"My old man's in pieces," Ricky said soberly. He turned in a half circle, staring around dully at the half-open boxes scattered over the kitchen counters. "I'm not much better. If I didn't have all this to do, I'd be going crazy."

Mike regarded him for a long moment. "You tried to get any sleep?"

"Yeah." His mouth quirked. "About five minutes this afternoon. They make those waiting room chairs so you don't sleep, you know." He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Anyway, I'm too wired. Too tired."

He didn't flinch when Mike put his hand on his shoulder, didn't move when Mike gripped him gently. "It'll be all right," Mike said.

"Yeah." Ricky's voice was thick, his eyes hidden by his hand. He sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he gave in, just for a moment, to the weariness Mike heard in his voice. Mike rubbed his shoulder again, giving him another squeeze that forced a soft grunt from Ricky's lips, his head dropping as Mike's fingers closed on the hard, taut muscle. His shoulder was tense and strained under Mike's hand, the T-shirt slightly damp against his palm. Slowly, Mike lifted his other hand, closing his fingers around the other shoulder.

Ricky's head was still bowed, the soft dark fall of his hair nearly touching Mike's nose. Mike took a small step forward, flexing his hands against the cotton shirt, and began, slowly and gently, to rub Ricky's neck. He waited for the protest, waited for Ricky to stop him, to ask him what the hell he was doing, but all Ricky did was sigh, leaning a little into the touch.

"Mmm," Ricky finally said, and Mike's heart stopped. "That feels good," he said with a little laugh, as if he were embarrassed to admit it. Mike said nothing, just continued the soft, lazy massage, spreading his hands to cover Ricky's shoulders, moving his fingers inwards to press to the corded tendons at the back of his neck. Ricky groaned as soon as he touched him there, dipping his head forward to let Mike rub the back of his neck. "God, I can feel that all the way down," he said, and Mike had to swallow.

As he massaged, Mike moved closer again, urging Ricky's head down until it was almost on his shoulder, until they were standing chest to chest. Then Ricky's head was on his shoulder, and Ricky's arms were around his waist, and Mike was standing there with his partner in his arms, holding him, touching him. Holding him as long as wanted to be held.

Gradually, Mike let the motions of his fingers still, turning the massage into a light rub, then into a soft, even stroking, his fingers trailing up and down the soft hairs on Ricky's nape. Ricky said nothing, did nothing, just stood there with his arms looped loosely around Mike's back, his head resting against Mike's collarbone. They stood there a long time, silent and still, the slow caress of Mike's fingers the only movement between them, Ricky's deep, even breathing the only sound. His body was heavy and relaxed in Mike's arms, the tension flowing slowly away as he stood there, allowing Mike to hold him.

Until he kissed him, Mike wasn't sure he was going to follow the impulse through. Impulse. Yeah. The same impulse that had propelled him out of bed, across town, and across this kitchen floor. The same impulse that had made him put his hand on Ricky's shoulder, and was now urging him to press his lips softly to the curve of Ricky's jaw.

It was nothing, just a light brush of his lips, but he braced himself, waiting for Ricky to jump, waiting for the "What the hell?" or the punch in the jaw. But it didn't come. They were standing there, close together, nothing more than a breath of air between their bodies. Close enough for Mike to hear Ricky's breath. Hear the catch in it as Mike kissed him, the gasp as Mike's mouth touched Ricky's throat again. Then Ricky was pushing him away, firm hands on his chest, urging him back. But not shoving, not angry. Just a gentle, firm pressure until Mike stepped back, putting a good foot between them.

The silence stretched on for a full minute. Mike not daring to speak, Ricky, apparently, not able to. Twice Ricky opened his mouth, starting to say something, then shut it again, the words unsaid. His pale skin was slightly flushed, his green eyes wide and huge in the overhead lights. The T-shirt was stuck to his chest, vibrating with his breath, a loose fold beating in time with his heart. Beating hard, and fast. Then Ricky swallowed, and Mike braced himself, readied his apologies, prepared himself to leave. But Ricky still said nothing, and Mike realized that it was now, somehow, his move once more.

He stepped forward again, and Ricky stiffened, but didn't move. He just stared at him, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to flee even if he wanted to. Mike didn't think he wanted to. He closed his eyes as Mike leaned in, lips parting helplessly, his breath releasing in a long, shuddering sigh as Mike bent down to nuzzle gently at the side of his neck.

No kisses now, just soft breath against Ricky's skin, the touch of Mike's cheek and his mouth as Mike breathed in the smell of him. Sweat, and dirt, and just a hint of sweet cologne, the traces left over from the morning's shave. Ricky swallowed again, his throat moving, and Mike risked another kiss, just below his ear. He put his arms out, careful not to touch him, and braced his hands on the counter on either side of Ricky's body. Hemming him in without actually touching him, giving him every chance to push him away again, to say no. He kissed him again, moving slowly up the line of his jaw, planting soft, wet kisses along his skin, pausing before each one, taking his time. He reached the corner of Ricky's mouth, kissed him there, felt the other man jerk as the edges of their mouths touched. Then Ricky's arms were reaching up to hold him, his fingers threading through Mike's hair, and the next kiss was Ricky's, bringing their mouths together with almost bruising force.

It was a greedy kiss, filled with need, and want. Mike hadn't realized the need in himself until he responded in kind, opening his mouth to devour Ricky's, sucking the other man's tongue into his mouth before Ricky had time to do more than gasp in surprise. But his hands only gripped Mike harder, digging into his shoulders and back, sliding down to clasp him fiercely around the waist. Mike let his own hands wander south, rubbing down Ricky's sweat-damp shirt, pulling it, tugging it, until he could slide his hands over bare skin, and down into the waist of his jeans. He squeezed him, hard, and heard Ricky gasp into his mouth, felt the bump of Ricky's hips against his, the hard shape of his erection straining against the worn denim. Mike squeezed again, and Ricky gulped, thrusting his hips forward, finding the matching hardness in Mike's jeans and pressing himself against it.

What little coherent thought Mike had left, fled. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of his mind, he recalled that he'd started this as a comfort, for which of them he wasn't sure. But now the comfort had been pared down to the raw needs of their two bodies, demanding, eager, wanting to be fulfilled. They were grinding against each other openly now, all pretense gone, bent on nothing but the rough slide of tight denim, the thick cloth a maddening barrier of frustration. Mike ran his hands up Ricky's back again, glorying in the slide of his palms over sweat-slicked skin, wanting more. He reached for the hem of the shirt, pulled, tugged, but Ricky's arms were wrapped too tightly around him, their mouths fused, refusing to part. He got his hands in the collar of the T-shirt, and tore, baring Ricky's body to the waist, the torn halves fluttering down around his hips. Ricky only pressed himself closer, rubbing his naked chest against the cloth of Mike's shirt, his own hands busily pulling up Mike's hem. Mike stroked down his bare back, caressing all over, down his spine, over his shoulders, and finally around to the front of his waist. He had Ricky out in a matter of seconds, pushing his underwear down his thighs under the jeans, leaving them on while freeing his swollen cock from the tight prison. Ricky shuddered at the touch of Mike's hand, and finally, roughly, pulled himself away.

"Hang on," he panted, the first words he'd spoken, that either of them had spoken, since Mike had kissed him. They were still locked in the embrace, arms around each other, Ricky's half-naked body welded to Mike's. Ricky took several deep, gulping breaths, then jerked his head towards the back of the apartment. "The bedroom's in there."

"Okay." They kissed again, desperate, wanting, then broke apart, stumbling awkwardly around the boxes and piles of books and compact discs as they made their way to the bedroom.

Mike was in the lead. He turned as soon as he was in the door, stripping off his shirt and jeans in two economic yanks, kicking off shoes and pants both as he stepped forward. Ricky halted in the doorway to watch, breathing hard, his pale skin flushed and sheened with sweat, the dark arrow of hair on his stomach fanning down to disappear into the waistband of his jeans. The jeans were still hanging around his hips, the front gaping open to allow the proud, purple-tipped erection to peek through. It was one of the sexiest things Mike had ever seen. He took a step forward, running his hands down Ricky's arms before turning him and pushing him back against the wall, falling down to his knees in front of him. He parted Ricky's jeans and pushed them down, baring his hips and thighs, then without warning leaned forward and slid Ricky's full length into his mouth.

"Oh, God." Ricky moaned above him, his thighs trembling under Mike's hands, his body collapsing against the wall behind him. He swelled even further in Mike's mouth as Mike pulled him in, then let him slide out again. Mike repeated the move, far beyond any fancy moves, any subtle seduction. He just wanted Ricky's cock in his mouth, wanted to taste him and feel him, to bury his face in the soft nest of curls at his groin. Ricky bucked above him, thrusting into Mike's mouth, and then his hands were pushing Mike away, gentle but firm. Mike took the hint, letting the smooth, firm skin slide away from him, giving one last hard lick before standing and following Ricky into the bedroom.

They fell into the bed together, wrapped around each other. The kissing began again, only this time it was skin on skin, sweaty bodies twined together, turning, thrusting, groping at one another while they rolled around on the rumpled sheets. First one on top, then the other, pushing against each other, rubbing their bare cocks together in a frenzy of desire, wanting nothing more than to reach satisfaction. They rolled on their sides for a while, Ricky pumping down into the tight cavern of Mike's thighs, then Mike rolled over again, bringing Ricky on top of him, spreading his legs to wrap Ricky in a hard, firm vise. This would be it, he knew, feeling the wave build in his own body, seeing it, too, in the look of glazed abstraction on Ricky's face. Mike lifted his knees, hooking his feet behind Ricky's thighs, rocking him against him as they both began to thrust in frantic tandem, seeking the final release to the pounding desire.

They came almost together, Ricky reaching his peak only moments before Mike, the hot pulse of the semen on Mike's belly mingling with their sweat, allowing Mike to finish in the slick, sealed pocket between their bodies. Ricky wilted on top of him as soon as they were done, his shoulders heaving with the aftermath of the orgasm, his sweat-damp hair trickling moisture onto Mike's shoulder. He pressed his face into the curve of Mike's neck, holding himself there for a long, long time while the final tremors faded from his body.

Finally, Ricky pushed himself away, sliding down to the other side of the bed, flinging his arms out bonelessly. "God," he said abstractedly, staring up at the ceiling.

Mike, unable to speak just then, only nodded, joining Ricky in his contemplation of the bare white plaster. They lay there for a long time, ten minutes or more, then Ricky pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up, propping his head in his hands. He sat there, silent, unmoving, for a while, then got up and left the room without another word. After a few seconds, Mike heard the shower start. Then Ricky appeared in the doorway, still naked, his hair mussed and trailing into his eyes. "Well, you taking a shower or what?"

Ricky was waiting for him under the hot spray when Mike appeared, holding the curtain back for him, then pulling it closed as Mike stepped into the tub with him. Ricky was already wet, and Mike turned himself under the flood of hot water as the other man reached for the soap and started lathering his hands. Mike jumped a little, startled, as the soapy hands began moving over his body, scrubbing at the sweat and dirt, sluicing away the mingled sweat and semen that covered his torso. Ricky scrubbed him off calmly, paying close attention to his work, sparing no part of him as he worked his strong, clever fingers over Mike's body.

"I've never done this before," he said presently, the comment dropped casually as he ran his lathered hands over Mike's chest. "I just wanted you to know that."

It would have been easy to pretend to misunderstand, but Mike wasn't in a teasing mood just then. "Okay," he answered, letting himself be turned under the spray again. He waited a moment, until Ricky was soaping his back, then remarked in his turn, "I have done this before."

Ricky's hands didn't falter. "Yeah. I guessed." He was silent for a while, scrubbing gently at Mike's shoulders, at his waist and his buttocks. "I needed it," he said, as his hands slid smoothly over the swells of Mike's ass. "Needed it from you, I guess."

"Hey, what are partners for?" Mike quipped, and got a snort of laughter.

"I think they left that one out of the rulebook, Mikey." Ricky turned him again, letting the water rinse his backside, putting his arms around him to help the water sluice down his back. When Mike was clean, he stayed there, holding him, looking into Mike's face with searching, serious eyes. "This isn't going to happen again, is it?"

Mike shook his head, not able, for a moment, to speak around the lump in his throat. "No," he finally managed. "No, it isn't."

"That's okay." Ricky actually sounded like he meant it. He smiled, unexpectedly, and dipped his head forward to kiss Mike lightly on the lips. "Thanks for the once, big guy," he said into his mouth, and kissed him again, this time slow, and serious, a good-bye kiss. Mike was glad for it.

\-----

Mike left Ricky curled up in his bed, drowsing off under the twin sedatives of sex and hot water. Ricky had given him a key and a copy of the lease before he'd left, saying he'd wait a couple of days before mailing the official forms, just in case Mike changed his mind. What had just happened between them, not an hour before, hadn't been mentioned. Just one of those things. A quick, needful toss in the sheets, good while it lasted, but not worth the heartache of an encore. With Ricky, there wouldn't be one. He might have bent enough to do it with his partner once, but if Mike was any judge it would probably be his last time, too.

The sky was getting light as Mike walked up the street to his building, the streetlamps still casting shadows, but quickly dimming as the sun prepared to creep over the horizon. He was due at the precinct in less than two hours. Not enough time to sleep, but enough time to make and drink a pot of coffee, change into clean clothes, maybe watch the morning news . . . and brood.

Once upstairs, he brushed his teeth and shaved dutifully, the other basics having been taken care of at Ricky's. He started a pot of coffee, then went to the bedroom to change clothes. Pointless, really, when all he was doing was wearing them down to the station so he could change into his uniform. But the clothes were rank with smoke from the bar, other odors wafting up as he stripped, a mini-documentary of everything he'd done that night. Beer, cigarettes, perfume . . . sex. The smell was overpowering, nauseating

He made it to the bathroom before throwing up, not that it would have mattered so much. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, but he felt better when it was over. Light-headed, but clear, as if he'd been walking around in a daze all night, and only just now was waking up. But with that clarity came all the other truths, all the memories, and for a moment he thought he might be sick all over again. He stumbled back into the living area, over to the table he'd been using to study, and slumped down in the chair, staring down numbly at the pile of textbooks before him. School. There was a laugh.

_Logic,_ he thought bitterly. That's what detectives were supposed to have on their side. The ability to think, and make rational, logical, deductions. _So let's follow the logic. Heather Coyne, single, attractive and smart. Nice lady, who nicely invited you into her bed. But at the last minute, you push her off. Not sure why, but okay. Then, later, you do figure out why. You wouldn't sleep with Heather because you realized that you owed some kind of loyalty, sexual or whatever, to Ben Stone. Fair enough._

Now let's follow this deductive trail a little farther. You decide that you're having these feelings of commitment to Stone. Nothing unusual there, you've had them before, acted on them before. But no, these were_ unusual. Unusually strong. So, that means you care a lot about him. Means you care more than you thought._

What, then, was the rational, reasoned response to all this? What was the first thing he did once he realized that what he just might want was to spend the rest of his life with a man he'd known all of five months? Easy. Run out and have sex with the first man he found. No, not even the first man. Ricky. His partner.

He'd had sex with Ricky. Just put aside for a moment all the _other_ reasons he shouldn't have, like Ricky being his partner, being a friend, and most of all, Ricky being needy and vulnerable and ripe for some bastard to take advantage of, some bastard like him. Ignoring all that, there was the glaring, ugly fact that he'd done it to cheat on Ben. No matter that it wasn't, technically, cheating, no matter that he and Ben were barely dating right now. He'd done it to try to get away from him, to prove that he wasn't tied down to Ben Stone. No, worse. To prove that he didn't _want_ to be tied down to Ben Stone. Logic.

The smell of fresh coffee finally registered in the forefront of his tired brain, and he stood up, making his way into the kitchen to lift the steaming carafe from the coffeemaker. He stared at the rich brown brew for a moment, waited for the smell to hit him again, then turned and poured the whole sickening mess down the sink. He drank some water instead, sipping it cautiously, feeling the cold chill as it hit his knotted, empty stomach. Nerves. Screwed-up, stupid, irrational, dumbest thing he'd ever done nerves. Realizing that wasn't even the worst, no. What was worse was knowing, now, what he had to do, and wondering how he was ever going to face Ben again.

\-----

It was still early by the time Ben and Elizabeth got back to the condo, despite the full last inning. Plenty of time to get Elizabeth's things together. He sent her to the kitchen to call her mother, then went up and fetched her bag, checking to see that she hadn't left anything. When he reached the hall, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs and went to answer it.

Elizabeth beat him to the door, barely, and stood on tiptoe to peek through the peephole. She turned back, her eyes wide. "It's a policeman!"

Ben felt a chill. "Did you call your mother?" he asked, forcing his voice to be calm.

"Not yet."

"Why don't you do that, honey, okay?"

"Okay," she said reluctantly, and moved off to the kitchen, casting frequent glances over her shoulder. Ben waited until the door to the kitchen had swung shut, then took a deep breath and opened the front door. And stared.

"Hi," Mike said.

It took him a moment to recover. "Hi." Feeble, but safe.

Mike waited a second, his expression wary. "Is this a bad time?"

_It could be worse_ was the most tactful thing Ben could think of, but instead he went for the blunt truth. "I am a little tied up," he admitted. "Elizabeth is here, waiting for her mother."

It didn't take long for comprehension to dawn. Then Mike flushed. "I'm sorry." he said quickly. "I'll go."

"No." Ben stopped him, reaching out to touch his arm, halting him when he would have turned down the steps. "No, please." He tugged gently, moving back into the hall. "Come in." Mike hesitated. "Please."

Mike came in, tucking his hat under his arm. In the full light of the hallway, his features took on a different cast. Tired, almost haggard, his face pale and lined, dark smudges under weary eyes. "I'm sorry for not calling," he said. "I got a break, and I didn't want to waste time getting over here." His eyes shifted, moving past Ben to the kitchen doorway, and Ben turned, knowing exactly what he was seeing.

"Hi," Elizabeth said from the kitchen, studying Mike with a pose of innocent nonchalance that, Ben was sure, was as carefully arranged as a painter's still life.

"Hi," Mike said, and gave her a quick smile. Elizabeth came forward, tugging absently on the end of her braid, and Ben had no choice but to make introductions.

"Elizabeth, this is Officer Mike Logan. He's a good friend of mine. Mike, this is my daughter Elizabeth."

"Hi," Mike said again, and held out a hand. Elizabeth took it, and shook, and looked up with her big blue eyes to meet Mike's. Ben had to bite back a sigh.

"You're a policeman?" she asked. "For real?"

"That's right." Mike tilted his shoulder, showing her the badge fixed to his uniform shirt. "Badge number 2664." He straightened up again. "You never met a cop before?"

She shot her eyes at her father. "Well, most of the ones I've seen with Dad wear, you know, suits."

"Detectives," Mike told her. "Detectives get to wear suits. Beat cops like me--" He touched his badge. "--we have to wear this getup."

Elizabeth looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know. I think your uniform is a lot cooler."

This time the smile was broader, and genuine. "Thanks. Maybe when I get to be a detective, I'll tell them I'll keep the uniform. My old man was a cop."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. He walked the same beat every day for thirty years."

Elizabeth mulled this over. "Did he want you to be a co--a policeman, too?"

"Nah. He wanted me to go to college, be an accountant or a lawyer or something."

Elizabeth hesitated, clearly torn between loyalty to her father's profession, and the fascination of talking to this new man in her life. "So what did you do?"

"Went to college. Then decided I wanted to be a cop."

"Why? I mean, didn't you want to be a lawyer?"

"Not for me," Mike said firmly. "Four years of cracking the books was enough. I couldn't take another three-four years in school."

Ben closed his eyes. Oh, great. Elizabeth's eyes were wide, her expression one of almost comical shock on meeting an adult who _didn't_ think school was the be-all and end-all of the world. Mike was going on, blithely unaware that he'd just reached an almost heroic stature in the eyes of his new friend. "I didn't want some desk job either, pushing paper, crunching numbers. I wanted something where I could get out, really do something for a living. So, I became a cop."

Ben was almost relieved when the doorbell rang again. Much longer, and Elizabeth would be asking how old she had to be before she could join the Academy. But the relief lasted only as long as it took for him to consider who might be at the door. He looked at Elizabeth. "Did you call your mother, Elizabeth?"

"Yeah. But she wasn't home."

Wonderful. Helen, hoping to get here early, to sit in martyred silence on the street. If so, why couldn't she have been ten minutes earlier? Ben was opening his mouth, trying to find a tactful, un-urgent reason for Mike to not be present when the door was opened, when Mike came unexpectedly to the rescue.

"I'll just wait in the kitchen," he said, as casually as if it were perfectly natural for a cop to show up and hang out in the kitchen of the District Attorney. He turned to Elizabeth, and saluted her with the hand not holding his cap. "Nice meeting you, Liz."

"You, too," she said, and watched him go. _Liz. Oh, dear._

If Helen was disappointed to find him there, and Elizabeth with him, waiting with her bag at her side, not a trace of it showed on her flawless features. She was dressed casually today, wearing a spotless linen suit and loafers, her hair clubbed neatly at the back of her neck. "Ben," she murmured, and stepped inside.

"Helen."

After the greeting, though, she all but ignored him, turning to Elizabeth and holding out her hands, smiling broadly. "Hello, dear."

Elizabeth came forward for her hug. "Hello, Mother."

"Are you ready?"

"Sure." Elizabeth fetched her bag, then dumped it by the door so she could turn and give Ben a good-bye hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "Bye, Dad. See you next week."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Ben sent her off with a last, fond pat, and shut the door behind them, acknowledging the familiar pang of regret as he watched his daughter leave.

It sounded so reasonable, so logical on paper. One home, free visitation. Surely the best for her, the best for everyone. Except him. He should have pushed for his rights, should have tried harder to get a hearing about Elizabeth living with him. But he'd let his attorney talk him out of it.

"Look, Ben," Maury had said, "the courts are biased enough against paternal custody. With your . . . situation, you don't have a chance in hell. If Helen decides to play dirty, it could blow up in your face, and you could lose everything." Maury had leaned forward, earnest, almost sweating with sincerity. "Trust me, Ben. Open visitation is a gift. Take it, and count your blessings."

Yeah. His "situation." Translation: If Helen told the court he was bisexual, they might take his daughter away forever. No matter how many years of marriage, no matter that the only infidelity in all those years had been Helen's. Bisexual father equals bad parent. End of story.

Mike was sitting at the kitchen table when Ben came in, head propped in his hands, staring down at the polished maple surface. He didn't move when Ben opened the door, and Ben thought for a moment that he might be asleep. But then he raised his head, and favored Ben with a wan smile.

"Hey." It came out rough, almost harsh, and Mike cleared his throat. "Look, Ben. I'm sorry. This was a mistake . . ."

"No." Ben hadn't meant to put quite that snap in his voice, and he softened it instantly. "No, it's not your fault." He forced himself to smile. "Anyway, you got to meet Elizabeth."

To his surprise, Mike genuinely brightened. "Yeah. She's a great kid. Pretty smart, not some ditzy na-na."

Not the way Ben would have put it, but . . . . He took the chair beside Mike's, leaning back to study him again. In the harsh fluorescent light, Mike looked even worse, his skin an unhealthy pasty color, the smudges like purpling bruises under his eyes. He'd probably shaved that morning, but against the pallor of his skin his normal four o'clock shadow stood out dark and rough.

"You look tired," Ben said. "Couldn't sleep?"

Mike flinched at the question, something that might have been pain, might have been guilt, flooding his features. "Ben . . ." he started, and stopped, turning his head away. "Christ," he whispered. "This is harder than I thought."

Ben was silent. The chill of fear had returned. Mike, sleepless, upset . . . unable to talk. A thousand scenarios rushed through his mind, a flood of panicked images. None of them were good, and they got worse with every second that Mike sat there, unhappiness written all over his face, guilt in his eyes. Ben forced himself to sit up, forced words from his mouth, any words that might prime the pump. "What is it?" he asked, and reached out across the table, finding Mike's pale, cold hand. He squeezed the limp fingers gently. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"Oh, Jesus." Mike turned away again, squeezing his eyes shut. His hand jerked in Ben's, gripping him convulsively, almost painfully, then released him, his fingers sliding back away from Ben's touch, to clench with Mike's other fist on top of the table. "Ben," he said, and his voice was low, and rough now, almost too soft to hear. "Ben, I slept with someone else."

For a second, Ben reeled. He'd heard the expression "struck by words" before, but never, until this moment, had he ever appreciated what it really meant. He felt it, like an actual physical blow somewhere in his gut, a cold, spreading sickness that oozed out from his middle, chilling, nauseating. He swallowed, and made himself speak again. "When?"

"Last night." Mike was slumped now in his chair, head hanging down between his hands, not looking at him. Not able to look. "God, Ben, I--" He bit it off, clamping down the tremor Ben heard in his voice. "I'm sorry."

Ben fought for logic, made himself say it, even though the words threatened to choke him. "You don't have to apologize," he said, hearing the phrases roll out, stiff, emotionless, rote. He didn't care. "We never said that--"

"The hell we didn't!" Mike jerked up from his slouch, his eyes blazing with anger. Anger and hate. Not for Ben, but for himself. "Maybe not out loud," he went on roughly, "Maybe not written down on some goddamn piece of legal goddamn paper. But you don't sit there and tell me that we both didn't know."

"I did," Ben said quietly. "At least I thought I did. Apparently you felt different."

Mike slumped back in the chair. "I guess I deserved that," he said, and ran a hand over his face. "Ben, I'm sorry."

Ben wasn't sure what to say. "So am I," was the best that he seemed able to do. He felt sick. Sick, angry . . . and humiliated. Last night, while he'd lain here thinking about Mike, while he'd thought about calling him, being with him, Mike had been with someone else. Part of him, the cynical, bitter part that had sat on his shoulder and whispered in his ear all along, wondered why he'd ever thought to expect anything else.

Before he could stop himself, before he even thought to refine the thoughts churning in his head, he spoke. "Mike, you're not being forced into anything here. You said it yourself, there's no obligation between us. You want to leave, you can."

Mike raised his head. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

It took a long time for Ben to answer. "I don't know."

Mike groaned, and stood up. "I can't believe I did it," he said, almost laughing, his voice laced with bitterness. "The best thing that's ever happened to me, and I fuck it up." He paced to the other end of the kitchen. "I fuck it up," he said to the back window, "because I'm too fucking stupid to think it straight." He turned back. "You know what I figured out last night?"

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. "What?" Ben asked.

"I figured out that I wanted to be with you." Mike's voice was raw, and honest, his face as open and vulnerable as Ben had ever seen it. "Finally got a clue, finally realized that maybe there was something I wanted that only you could give me." He swallowed, and his face changed, the vulnerability fading into self-contempt. "So the first thing I do is go look for it somewhere else." He turned again, and Ben jumped as his fist shook the timbers of the back door, the glass rattling under the blow. "Dammit!" He stayed there, breathing hard, staring at the dark-paneled wood in front of him. Then he wrenched open the back door, and was gone.

"Mike!" Ben jumped to his feet, but didn't move any farther in pursuit. If Mike wanted to run away, Ben wasn't sure that it was his job to stop him. Wasn't sure, even, if he really wanted to. He waited a moment, then walked slowly to the back door and closed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Although Ricky is borrowed from the show "The Commish," he's the only element of that show that appears in the story. The character Heather Coyne appears in the Law &amp; Order episode "Seed." This story takes place about four years before the events of the first season of Law &amp; Order.
> 
> **Thanks** to Carolyn, Calcasieu, coolgrin, and Jeannie, the most patient beta-readers on the planet. This story wouldn't have made it without you.
> 
> **Special Thanks** to Lorelei, for beta research and encouragement far above and beyond the call of duty.


End file.
